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THE  FLEDGLING 

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CHARLES  BERNARD  NORDHOFF 


THE  FLEDGLING 


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THE  FLEDGLING 


CHARLES  BERNARD  NORDHOFF 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

1919 


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COPYRIGHT,  1917  AMD  I918,  BY  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,   I919,  BY  CHARLES  BERNARD  NORDHOFF 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

I.  A  Watcher  of  the  Skies     ...  1 

II.  The  Fledgling 70 

in.  Full-Fledged         .....  94 


THE  FLEDGLING 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES 

January  22,  1917 

We  were  put  on  active  duty  at  the  front 
about  the  first  of  the  year;  in  fact,  I  spent 
New  Year's  night  in  a  dugout  within  pis- 
tol-shot of  the  Germans.  It  was  quite  a 
celebration,  as  the  French  Government 
had  provided  champagne,  cakes,  and 
oranges  for  all,  and  every  one  was  feeling 
in  a  cheery  mood.  When  dinner  was  over, 
each  of  us  chipped  in  his  day's  ration  of 
army  wine  (about  a  pint),  and  with  a  little 
brandy,  some  oranges,  sugar,  and  a  packet 
of  spices  I  had  been  commissioned  to  get, 
we  brewed  a  magnificent  bowl  of  hot 
punch,  or  mulled  wine.  First  "The  Day 
of  Victory"  was  toasted,  then,  "France"; 
then,  with  typical  French  consideration. 


c-     c       « 


''%"'    ''  "''THE  FLEDGLING 

"The  United  States."  After  that,  each 
man's  family  at  home  received  a  health; 
so  you  may  be  interested  to  know  that 
your  health  and  happiness  for  1917  were 
drunk  in  a  first-class  abri  by  a  crowd  of 
first-class  fellows,  as  all  French  soldiers 
are. 

The  next  day  was  a  typical  one,  so  I  will 
sketch  it  for  you,  to  give  an  idea  of  how 
we  live  and  what  we  do.  When  the  party 
broke  up  it  was  late,  so  we  turned  in  at 
once,  in  a  deep  strong  dugout,  which  is  safe 
against  anything  short  of  a  direct  hit  by 
a  very  heavy  shell.  Once  or  twice,  as  1 
dropped  oflF  to  sleep,  I  thought  I  heard 
furtive  scamperings  and  gnawings,  but  all 
was  quiet  until  just  before  daybreak,  when 
we  were  awakened  by  a  terrifying  scream 
from  a  small  and  inoffensive  soldier  who 
does  clerical  work  in  the  oflSce  of  the  med- 
ecin  chef.  The  poor  fellow  has  a  horror  of 
rats,  and  usually  sleeps  with  head  and  toes 
tightly  bundled  up.  I  flashed  on  my  elec- 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES       3 

trie  torch  at  the  first  scream  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  an  enormous  rat  —  fully  the 
size  of  a  small  fox  terrier,  I  assure  you !  — 
streaking  it  for  his  hole.  The  next  minute 
I  made  out  the  unfortunate  little  soldier 
holding  with  both  hands  one  ear,  from 
which  the  nocturnal  visitor  had  bitten  a 
large  mouthful,  while  he  did  a  frantic 
dance  around  the  floor.  First  came  a  titter, 
then  a  choked  laugh,  and  finally  the  whole 
dugout  howled  with  uncontrollable  mirth, 
until  the  victim  wound  on  his  puttees  and 
stalked  out,  much  offended,  to  get  some 
iodine  for  his  ear. 

As  we  had  laughed  ourselves  wide 
awake,  I  passed  around  some  cigarettes, 
while  another  fellow  went  down  for  a  pot 
of  coffee.  Dressing  consists  of  putting  on 
one's  shoes,  puttees,  and  tunic  —  when  I 
feel  particularly  sybaritic  I  take  off  my 
necktie  at  night. 

For  once  the  sun  came  up  in  a  clear  blue 
sky  and  shone  down  frostily  on  a  clean 


4  THE  FLEDGLING 

white  world  —  a  metre  of  snow  on  the 
ground,  and  pines  like  Christmas  trees.  It 
was  wonderfully  still:  far  away  on  a  hill- 
side some  one  was  chopping  wood,  and  be- 
yond the  German  lines  I  could  hear  a  cock 
crow.  After  stopping  to  ask  the  telephon- 
ist if  there  were  any  calls,  I  took  towel  and 
soap  and  tooth-brush  and  walked  to  the 
watering  trough,  where  a  stream  of  icy 
water  runs  constantly.  As  I  strolled  back, 
a  thumping  explosion  came  from  the 
trenches  —  some  enthusiast  had  tossed  a 
grenade  across  as  a  New  Year's  greeting 
to  the  Boche.  Retaliatory  thumps  fol- 
lowed, and  suddenly  a  machine-gun  burst 
out  with  its  abrupt  stutter.  Louder  and 
louder  grew  the  racket  as  gusts  of  firing 
swept  up  and  down  the  lines,  until  a  bat- 
tery of  75's  took  a  hand  from  the  hills  half 
a  mile  behind  us.  CracJc-whang-crack,  they 
went,  like  the  snapping  of  some  enormous 
whip,  and  I  could  hear  their  shells  whine 
viciously  overhead. 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES       5 

An  orderly  appeared  shortly,  to  inform 
me  that  I  must  make  ready  to  take  out  a 
few  wounded.  My  load  consisted  of  one 
poor  fellow  on  a  stretcher,  still  and  invisi- 
ble under  his  swathing  of  blankets,  and 
two  very  lively  chaps,  —  each  with  a  leg 
smashed,  but  able  to  sit  up  and  talk  at  a 
great  rate.  We  offered  them  stretchers, 
but  they  were  refused  with  gay  contempt. 
They  hopped  forward  to  their  seats,  smil- 
ing and  nodding  good-bye  to  the  stretcher- 
bearers.  Despite  my  eflforts  one  of  them 
bumped  his  wounded  leg  and  a  little  invol- 
untary gasp  escaped  him.  "  Qa  pique,  mon 
vieux,"  he  explained  apologetically;  "mais 
ga  ne  fait  rien  —  allez ! " 

At  the  hospital,  several  miles  back, 
there  was  the  usual  wait  for  papers,  and 
as  I  handed  cigarettes  to  my  two  plucky 
passengers,  I  explained  that  hospital 
book-keeping  was  tiresome  but  necessary. 
Suddenly  the  blood-stained  blankets  on 
the  stretcher  moved  and  a  pale,  but  calm 


6  THE  FLEDGLING 

and  quizzical  face  looked  up  into  mine: 
"Oh,  la  la!  C'est  une  guerre  de  papier; 
donnez-moi  une  cigarette!"  You  can't 
down  men  of  this  caliber. 

Just  before  bedtime  another  call  came 
from  a  dressing-station  at  the  extreme 
front.  It  was  a  thick  night,  snowing  heav- 
ily, and  black  as  ink,  and  I  had  to  drive 
three  kilometres,  without  light  of  any  kind, 
over  a  narrow  winding  road  crowded  with 
traflSc  of  every  description.  How  one  does 
it  I  can  scarcely  say.  War  seems  to  consist 
in  doing  the  impossible  by  a  series  of  appar- 
ent miracles.  Ears  and  eyes  must  be  con- 
nected in  some  way.  Driving  in  pitchy 
blackness,  straining  every  sense  and  calling 
every  nerve  to  aid  one's  eyes,  it  seems  that 
vision  is  impaired  if  ears  are  covered. 

At  the  posts,  just  behind  the  lines, 
where  one  waits  for  wounded  to  come  in 
from  the  trenches,  I  spend  idle  hours, 
chatting  or  playing  dominoes.  Our  little 
circle  comprises  a  remarkable  variety  of 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES       7 

types:  one  hears  French  of  every  patois, 
from  the  half -Spanish  drawl  of  the  Medi- 
terranean to  the  clipped  negatives  and 
throaty  r  of  Paris. 

As  inventors  of  racy  slang  we  Americans 
are  miles  behind  the  French.  Your  pipe 
is  "Melanie"  (also  your  sweetheart,  for 
some  unknown  reason).  One's  mess  is  "la 
popote,"  a  shrapnel  helmet  is  a  "casse- 
role," a  machine-gun  is  a  "moulin  k  cafe." 
Bed  is  ironically  called  "plumard";  and 
when  a  bursting  shell  sends  out  its  spray 
of  buzzing  steel,  the  cry  is  "Attention  aux 
mouches!"  [Look  out  for  the  flies!]  Gov- 
ernment tobacco  is  known,  aptly,  as 
"foin"  [hay].  If  one  wants  a  cigarette,  and 
has  a  paper  but  no  tobacco,  one  extends 
the  paper  toward  a  better-provided  friend 
saying,  "Kindly  sign  this."  And  so  on. 

February  18 

I  had  an  interesting  day  yesterday.  The 
commandant  asked  for  a  car  —  he  is  the 


8  THE  FLEDGLING 

head  medical  officer  —  to  visit  some  posts, 
and  I  was  lucky  enough  to  land  the  job. 
He  is  a  charming,  cultivated  man,  and 
made  it  very  pleasant  for  his  chauffeur. 
We  visited  a  number  of  posts,  inspecting 
new  dugout  emergency  hospitals,  and 
vaccinating  the  stretcher-bearers  against 
typhoid  —  a  most  amusing  process,  as 
these  middle-aged  fellows  have  the  same 
horror  of  a  doctor  that  a  child  has  of  a 
dentist.  Reluctant  was  scarcely  the  word. 
Finally  we  left  the  car  (at  the  invita- 
tion of  the  artillery  officer)  and  walked  a 
couple  of  miles  through  the  woods  to  see 
a  new  observation  post.  The  last  few  hun- 
dred yards  we  made  at  a  sneaking  walk, 
talking  only  in  whispers,  till  we  came  to  a 
ladder  that  led  up  into  the  thick  green  of 
a  pine  tree.  One  after  another  the  officers 
went  up,  and  at  length  the  gunner  beck- 
oned me  to  climb.  Hidden  away  like  a 
bird's  nest  among  the  fragrant  pine- 
needles,  I  found  a  tiny  platform,  where 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES       9 

the  officer  handed  me  his  binoculars  and 
pointed  to  a  four-inch  hole  in  the  leafy 
screen.  There  right  below  us  were  two  in- 
conspicuous lines  of  trenches,  zigzagging 
across  a  quiet  field,  bounded  by  leafless 
pollard  willows.  It  was  incredible  to  think 
that  hundreds  of  men  stood  in  those 
ditches,  ever  on  the  alert.  At  a  first  glance 
the  countryside  looked  strangely  peaceful 
and  unhampered  —  farm-houses  here  and 
there,  neatly  hedged  fields,  and,  farther 
back,  a  village  with  a  white  church.  Look 
closer,  though,  and  you  see  that  the 
houses  are  mere  shells,  with  crumbling 
walls  and  shattered  windows;  the  fields 
are  scarred  and  pitted  with  shell-holes, 
the  village  is  ruined  and  lifeless,  and  the 
belfry  of  the  church  has  collapsed.  Above 
all,  there  is  not  an  animal,  not  a  sign  of 
life  in  the  fields  or  on  the  roads.  Not  a 
sound,  except  the  distant  hornet  buzzing 
of  an  aeroplane. 

On  clear  days  there  is  a  good  deal  of 


10  THE  FLEDGLING 

aeroplane  activity  in  our  section,  and  one 
never  tires  of  watching  the  planes.  The 
German  machines  do  not  bomb  us  in 
this  district,  for  some  reason  unknown 
to  me,  but  they  try  to  reconnoiter  and 
observe  for  artillery  fire.  It  is  perfectly 
obvious,  however,  that  the  French  have 
the  mastery  of  the  air,  by  virtue  of  their 
skillful  and  courageous  pilots  and  superb 
fighting  machines,  and  their  superior  skill 
in  anti-aircraft  fire.  To  watch  a  plane  at 
an  altitude  of,  say,  nine  thousand  feet 
under  shrapnel  fire,  one  would  think  the 
pilot  was  playing  with  death;  but  in 
reality  his  occupation  is  not  so  tremen- 
dously risky. 

Consider  these  factors:  he  is  a  mile 
and  a  half  to  two  miles  from  the  battery 
shooting  at  him,  he  presents  a  tiny  mark, 
and  his  speed  is  from  eighty  to  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  miles  per  hour. 
Above  all,  he  can  twist  and  turn  or  change 
his  altitude  at  will.  The  gunner  must 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     11 

calculate  his  altitude  and  rate  of  speed, 
and  after  the  lanyard  is  pulled,  consider- 
able time  elapses  before  the  shell  reaches 
its  mark.  Meanwhile,  the  aviator  has 
probably  come  down  or  risen  or  changed 
his  course.  It  is  like  trying  to  shoot  a 
twisting  snipe  with  very  slow-burning 
powder  —  the  odds  are  all  in  favor  of  the 
snipe. 

All  the  same,  the  spectacle  never  quite 
loses  its  thrill.  High  and  remote  against 
the  sky  you  see  the  big  reconnaissance 
machine  going  steadily  on  its  way,  its 
motor  sending  a  faint  drone  to  your  ears. 
Keeping  it  company,  darting  around  it 
like  a  pilot-fish  around  a  shark,  is  the 
tiny,  formidable  appareil  de  chasse,  a 
mere  dot  against  the  blue. 

Crack!  Whang!  Boom!  goes  a  battery 
near  by,  and  three  white  puffs  spring  out 
suddenly  around  the  distant  machines, 
above,  behind,  below.  Another  battery 
speaks  out,  another  and  another,  till  the 


n  THE  FLEDGLENG 

sky  is  filled  with  downy  balls  of  smoke. 
Suddenly  the  firing  ceases,  and  the  big 
German  aero  slants  down  swiftly  toward 
its  base.  A  sharper  droning  hits  your  ears. 
There,  directly  above  us,  a  French  fight- 
ing machine  is  rushing  at  two  hundred 
kilometres  an  hour  to  give  battle  to  the 
little  Fokker.  Close  together,  wheeling 
and  looping  the  loop  to  the  rattle  of  their 
mitrailleuses,  they  disappear  into  a  cloud, 
and  we  can  only  guess  the  result. 

One  day  later 

I  finished  the  paragraph  above  just  as 
a  wave  of  rifle  and  machine-gun  fire 
rolled  along  the  lines.  Running  out  of 
the  abri  to  see  what  the  excitement  was 
about,  I  saw  two  French  aeros  skimming 
low  over  the  German  trenches  —  where 
every  one  with  any  kind  of  a  fire-arm 
was  blazing  away  at  them.  Fortunately, 
neither  one  was  hit,  and  after  a  couple  of 
retaliatory  belts,  they  rose  and  flew  off  to 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     13 

the  south.  The  Germans  began  to  waste 
shrapnel  on  the  air,  and  indiscreetly  re- 
vealed the  location  of  a  battery,  which 
the  French  promptly  bombarded  with 
heavy  guns.  Pretty  soon  all  hands  were 
at  it  —  a  two-hour  Fourth  of  July. 

I  was  on  the  road  all  day  yesterday, 
afternoon  and  evening,  getting  back  to 
the  post  at  10  p.m.  One  of  the  darkest 
nights  I  remember  —  absolutely  impos- 
sible to  move  without  an  occasional 
clandestine  flash  of  my  torch.  Far  off 
to  the  right  (twenty  or  thirty  miles)  a 
heavy  bombardment  was  in  progress,  the 
guns  making  a  steady  rumble  and  mutter. 
I  could  see  a  continuous  flicker  on  the 
horizon.  The  French  batteries  are  so 
craftily  hidden  that  I  pass  within  a  few 
yards  of  them  without  a  suspicion.  The 
other  day  I  was  rounding  a  familiar  turn 
when  suddenly,  with  a  tremendous  roar 
and  concussion,  a  "380"  went  off  close 
by.  The  little  ambulance  shied  across  the 


14  THE  FLEDGLING 

road  and  I  nearly  fell  off  the  seat.  Talk 
about  *' death  pops"  —  these  big  guns 
give  forth  a  sound  that  must  be  heard  to 
be  appreciated. 

Another  break  here,  as  since  writing 
the  above  we  have  had  a  bit  of  excite- 
ment, in  the  shape  of  a  raid,  or  coup  de 
main.  In  sectors  like  ours,  during  the 
periods  of  tranquillity  between  more 
important  attacks,  an  occasional  coup 
de  main  is  necessary  in  order  to  get  a 
few  prisoners  for  information  about  the 
enemy.  We  are  warned  beforehand  to 
be  ready  for  it,  but  do  not  know  exactly 
when  or  where.  I  will  tell  you  the  story 
of  the  last  one,  as  related  by  a  slightly 
wounded  but  very  happy  poilu  I  brought 
in  beside  me. 

"After  coffee  in  the  morning,"  he  said, 
"our  battalion  commander  called  for 
one  platoon  of  volunteers  to  make  the 
attack  —  each  volunteer  to  have  eight 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     15 

days'  special  leave  afterwards.  It  was 
hard  to  choose,  as  every  one  wanted  to 
go  —  for  the  *  permission,'  and  to  have 
a  little  fun  with  the  Boches.  At  noon 
we  were  ordered  to  the  first  line.  Our 
rifles  and  equipment  were  left  behind, 
each  man  carrying  only  a  little  food,  a 
canteen  of  wine,  a  long  knife,  and  a  sack 
of  grenades.  Our  orders  were  to  advance 
the  moment  the  bombardment  ceased, 
take  as  many  prisoners  as  possible,  and 
return  before  the  enemy  had  recovered 
from  his  surprise.  At  the  point  of  attack 
the  German  trench  is  only  twenty  yards 
from  ours  —  several  nights  before,  they 
had  rolled  out  a  line  of  portable  wire- 
entanglements.  At  4.30  in  the  afternoon 
our  75's  began  to  plough  up  the  Boche 
trench  and  rip  their  wire  to  shreds.  It  was 
wonderful  —  along  the  line  in  front  of 
us  hundreds  of  our  shells,  bursting  only 
twenty  metres  off,  sent  earth  and  wire 
and  timbers  high  into  the  air  —  while  not 


16  THE  FLEDGLING 

one   of   us,  watching   so  close   by,  was 
hurt. 

"At  5.15  the  guns  ceased  firing  and 
the  next  instant  we  were  over  the  para- 
pet, armed  with  knives,  grenades,  and  a 
few  automatic  pistols.  After  the  racking 
noise  of  the  bombardment,  a  strange 
quiet,  a  breathless  tranquillity,  seemed  to 
oppress  us  as  we  ran  through  the  torn 
wire  and  jumped  into  the  smoking  ruins 
of  the  enemy  trench.  In  front  of  me  there 
was  no  one,  —  only  a  couple  of  bodies,  — 
but  to  the  right  and  left  I  could  hear 
grenades  going,  so  it  was  evident  that  a 
few  Germans  had  not  retreated  to  the 
dugouts.  Straight  ahead  I  saw  a  boyau 
leading  to  their  second  lines,  and  as  I 
ran  into  this  with  my  squad,  we  came  on 
a  German  at  the  turn.  His  hands  were  up 
and  he  was  yelling, '  Kamerad,  Kamerad ! ' 
as  fast  as  he  knew  how.  Next  minute, 
down  went  his  hand  and  he  tossed  a 
grenade  into  our  midst.  By  luck  it  struck 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     17 

mud,  and  the  time-fuse  gave  us  a  mo- 
ment's start.  The  corporal  was  killed  and 
my  pal,  Fretard,  who  lies  on  the  stretcher 
behind,  got  an  eclat  through  the  leg.  We 
did  not  make  a  prisoner  of  the  Boche. 

"The  abris  of  the  second  line  were  full 
of  Germans,  but  all  but  one  were  barri- 
caded. A  few  grenades  persuaded  the 
survivors  to  come  out  of  this,  with  no 
fight  left  in  them;  but  how  to  get  into 
the  others?  In  vain  we  invited  them  to 
come  out  for  a  little  visit  —  till  some  one 
shouted,  'The  stove-pipes!'  Our  barrage 
fire  was  now  making  such  a  fuss  that  the 
Boches  farther  back  could  not  use  their 
machine-guns,  so  we  jumped  on  top  of 
the  dugouts  and  popped  a  half-dozen 
citrons  into  each  chimney.  That  made 
them  squeal,  mon  vieux  —  oh,  la  la !  But 
it  was  time  to  go  back  —  our  sergeant 
was  shouting  to  us;  so,  herding  our  pris- 
oners ahead,  we  made  a  sprint  back  to 
our  friends." 


18  THE  FLEDGLING 

One  of  the  prisoners  was  wounded, 
and  he  was  hauled  to  the  hospital  by  the 
chap  with  whom  I  share  my  quarters.  I 
went  to  have  a  look  at  the  German  — 
always  an  object  of  curiosity  out  here. 
Had  to  shoulder  my  way  through  a  crowd 
to  get  there.  He  lay  on  a  stretcher,  poor 
devil,  hollow-eyed,  thin,  with  a  ragged 
beard  —  an  object  of  pity,  suffering  and 
afraid  for  his  life.  His  gray  overcoat  lay 
beside  him  and  near  it  stood  his  clumsy 
hobnailed  boots.  German  or  no  German, 
he  was  a  human  being  in  a  bad  situation 
—  a  peasant  obviously,  and  deadly  afraid. 

Suddenly,  a  half-baked  civilian  —  al- 
ways the  most  belligerent  class  —  reached 
up  and  plucked  contemptuously  at  his 
leg,  with  an  unpleasant  epithet.  Then  a 
fine  thing  happened.  A  French  soldier, 
lying  near  by  on  a  stretcher,  severely 
wounded,  raised  up  his  head  and  looked 
sternly  at  the  crowd.  "Enough,"  he  said, 
"he  is  a  Boche,  I  grant  you;  but  first  of 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     19 

all  remember  that  he  is  a  soldier,  wounded 
and  in  your  power!" 

We  were  at  lunch  yesterday  when  a 
friend  rushed  in  to  say  that  an  aeroplane 
fight  was  starting,  almost  directly  over- 
head. A  big  French  reconnaissance  plane 
was  diving  for  safety,  with  a  Fokker 
close  behind  and  German  shrapnel  burst- 
ing all  around,  when  a  tiny  French  fight- 
ing machine  appeared  far  above,  plung- 
ing down  like  a  falcon  on  its  quarry.  The 
Fokker  turned  too  late:  the  Nieuport, 
rushing  downward  at  one  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  an  hour,  looped  the  loop 
around  the  German.  Two  bursts  of  ma- 
chine-gun fire  came  down  faintly  to  our 
ears,  and  the  next  moment  it  was  evident 
that  the  German  was  hit.  Slowly  at  first, 
the  Fokker  began  to  fall  —  this  way  and 
that,  like  a  leaf  falling  in  still  air,  grow- 
ing larger  each  moment  before  our  eyes, 
until  it  disappeared  behind  a  hill.  High 
over  the  lines,  scorning  burst  after  burst 


go  THE  FLEDGLING 

of  German  shrapnel,  the  tiny  Nieuport 
sailed  proudly  back  and  forth,  as  if  daring 
any  Boche  pilot  to  rise  and  try  his  luck. 
In  the  thrill  of  the  superb  spectacle,  one 
forgot  that  the  poor  chap  (a  good  sports- 
man, if  he  was  a  German!)  had  lost  his 
life. 

April,  1917 

I    have    met    some    interesting   types 

lately.  One  is  Jean  B ,  a  sergeant  of 

infantry.  Jean  has  been  about  the  world 
a  good  bit,  and  when  the  war  broke  out 
was  just  finishing  a  contract  in  Spain. 
He  promptly  came  to  France  and  volun- 
teered, and  had  only  fifteen  days  of 
training  before  being  sent  to  the  front 
for  a  big  attack.  Knowing  nothing  of 
military  matters  and  having  distinguished 
himself  in  the  first  day's  fighting,  he  was 
made  a  corporal  at  once;  and  next  day, 
when  the  attack  began  again,  he  and  his 
squad  were  the  first  to  jump  into  a  section 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     21 

of  German  trench.  There,  abandoned  in 
the  hasty  retreat,  was  a  brand-new  Ger- 
man machine-gim  and  forty  sacks  of 
ammunition.  Jean  is  a  canny  boy,  and 
before  the  oflScers  had  got  to  where  he 
was,  he  had  his  men  hide  gun  and  car- 
tridges in  a  clump  of  bushes. 

The  French  made  a  gain  of  about  two 
miles  at  this  point,  and  owing  to  the 
nature  of  the  ground,  —  artillery  em- 
placements, and  so  forth,  —  the  new  lines 
were  nearly  a  mile  apart.  Under  these 
conditions,  both  sides  were  constantly 
making  daylight  patrols  in  the  broken 
country  between  the  trenches;  and  as 
Jean's  captain  was  a  good  judge  of  men, 
he  let  him  take  his  squad  out  daily,  to  do 
pretty  much  as  he  pleased.  Pledging  his 
men  to  absolute  secrecy,  Jean  had  them 
hide  machine-gun  and  ammunition  a  little 
way  in  front  of  the  new  French  lines,  and 
then  gave  them  a  brief  drill,  in  mounting 
and  dismounting  the  gun,  tripod,  and  so 


22  THE  FLEDGLING 

forth.  (He  had  worked  in  an  ordnance 
factory,  By  the  way.)  Each  man  carried 
either  a  part  of  the  gun  or  a  few  belts  of 
cartridges. 

One  morning,  just  before  dawn,  they 
crawled  up  close  to  the  Germans  and 
hid  themselves  in  a  brushy  watercourse 
—  mitrailleuse  set  up  and  ready  for 
action.  Presently  there  were  sounds  of 
activity  in  front,  and  as  day  broke,  they 
made  out  thirty  or  forty  Germans,  who, 
so  far  away  and  out  of  sight  of  the  French, 
were  out  in  the  open,  working  on  a  new 
trench.  Jean's  men  began  to  get  excited 
and  wanted  action,  but  he  calmed  them, 
whispering  to  be  patient.  He  himself  is 
the  most  excitable  man  in  the  world  — 
except  in  emergencies;  a  jovial  type,  with 
black  hair  and  a  pair  of  merry  gray  eyes 
set  in  a  red,  weather-beaten  face. 

Hour  after  hour  they  bided  their  time, 
until  the  Germans,  only  seventy-five 
yards  away,  assembled  in  a  group  for  a 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     23 

rest.  Lying  on  his  belly  behind  the  gun, 
Jean  sighted  and  pulled  the  lever,  spray- 
ing lead  into  the  unfortunate  Boches 
until  the  last  belt  of  two  hundred  car- 
tridges had  raced  through.  Then  it  was 
all  hands  dismount  the  gun  and  retreat 
at  top  speed.  Sneaking  "home"  by  de- 
vious ways,  they  smiled  to  see  shells  begin 
to  smash  into  the  position  they  had  so 
lately  left. 

At  supper  that  evening  (the  meal 
known  universally  as  "la  soupe"),  the 
colonel  came  strolling  down  the  trench 
with  Jean's  subaltern.  The  lieutenant 
nodded  and  pointed,  then  called  Jean 
over. 

"Ah,"  said  the  colonel,  smiling,  "so 
this  is  the  type  who  was  on  patrol  this 
morning  —  hum.  I  was  in  an  advanced 
observation  post  on  the  hill  above  you 
and  saw  the  whole  affair  with  my  glasses. 
And  how  many  of  those  poor  Germans 
did  you  kill?" 


U  THE  FLEDGLING 

"I  did  not  wait  to  count,  my  colonel." 

"I  will  tell  you,  then;  six  escaped,  out 
of  thirty-eight  —  most  remarkable  rifle- 
fire  I  remember  seeing.  It  sounded  almost 
like  a  mitrailleuse  at  work.  How  many  in 
your  patrol?  Five?  Remarkable!  Remark- 
able! Eh  bien,  good  day,  sergeant.'' 

"He  was  a  type  not  too  severe,"  re- 
marked the  ex-corporal,  in  telling  the 
tale;  "in  short,  un  bon  gargon." 

This  is  the  highest  compliment  a  poilu 
can  pay  his  officer;  in  fact,  I  once  heard 
an  ancient  Territorial  say  it  irreverently 
of  Marshal  Joffre,  whom  he  had  known 
in  younger  days,  somewhere  in  the  Orient. 

Jean  is  at  home  in  several  languages, 
speaking  perfectly  French,  German,  Ital- 
ian, and  Spanish.  I  usually  chat  with  him 
in  the  last,  as  in  it  I  get  the  fine  points 
of  his  narrative  better  than  in  French. 
His  German  was  the  means  of  getting 
him  into  an  adventure  such  as  very  few 
men  in  the  war  have  experienced.  I  can- 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     25 

not,  of  course,  vouch  for  the  truth  of 
what  follows,  but  I  have  no  reason  to 
doubt  his  word,  and  know  him  to  be 
capable  of  any  foolhardy  rashness.  Such 
a  thing  would  be  impossible  at  the  present 
time. 

One  dark  night,  shortly  after  midnight 
Jean  —  on  a  solitary  patrol  —  was  lying 
just  outside  the  wire,  about  ten  metres 
from  the  German  trench,  listening  to 
locate  the  sentries.  There  was  a  faint 
starlight.  Suddenly  a  whisper  came  from 
beyond  the  wire,  a  low  voice  speaking  in 
broken  French. 

"Why  do  you  lie  so  quiet,  my  friend? 
I  saw  you  crawl  up  and  have  watched 
you  ever  since.  I  don't  want  to  shoot 
you;  I  am  a  Bavarian." 

"Good-evening,  then,"  Jean  whispered 
back  in  his  perfect  German. 

"So,"  said  the  sentry,  "you  speak  our 
language.  Wait  a  moment,  till  I  warn 
the  rest  of  my  squad,  and  I  will  show 


26  THE  FLEDGLING 

you  the  way  through  the  wire;  there  are 
no  oflBcers  about  at  this  hour." 

Probably  not  one  man  in  a  thousand 
would  have  taken  such  a  chance,  but  he 
did,  and  ten  minutes  later  was  standing 
in  the  trench  in  a  German  cloak  and 
fatigue  cap  (in  case  of  passing  officers), 
chatting  amiably  with  a  much  interested 
group  of  Bavarian  soldiers.  They  gave 
him  beer,  showed  him  their  dugouts,  and 
arranged  a  whistle  signal  for  future  visits, 
before  bidding  him  a  regretful  good-night. 
"We  are  Bavarians,"  they  said;  "we  like 
and  admire  the  French,  and  fight  only 
because  we  must." 

With  characteristic  good  sense,  Jean 
went  at  once  to  his  captain  the  following 
morning  and  told  him  the  whole  story. 
The  officer  knew  and  trusted  him  and 
said  without  hesitation,  "Go  as  often  as 
you  want,  and  keep  your  ears  open." 

So  he  made  many  a  midnight  crawl 
through   the  wires,   after  whistling  the 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     27 

soft  signal.  He  carried  with  him  each 
time  a  few  litres  of  wine  (a  great  luxury 
to  the  German  soldiers),  and  in  return 
they  took  him  on  long  excursions  through 
their  trenches.  Once  he  was  in  the  German 
third  line,  more  than  a  mile  back.  The 
sector  was  a  very  quiet  one,  though  the 
trenches  were  close  together,  and  one 
morning  a  crude  arrow  dropped  into  the 
French  trench,  bearing  a  note  to  Jean. 

"Get  into  your  dugouts  at  five  this 
afternoon,"  it  read;  "there  will  be  a  bom- 
bardment, but  no  attack,  we  hope." 

Another  time,  after  a  French  bom- 
bardment, a  similar  note  dropped  in: 
"Don't  send  so  many  torpedoes  —  shells 
are  all  right,  but  your  torpedoes  have 
ruined  some  of  our  best  sleeping-places. 
Remember  we  are  not  Prussians,  but 
Bavarians." 

Jean  is  just  now  back  from  a  permission. 
He  went  away  a  reckless,  jolly  sort  of  an 
adventurer,  and  has  come  back  sober, 


28  THE  FLEDGLING 

serious,  and  tremendously  in  love.  He 
told  me  a  little  about  it,  as  we  sat  together 
in  my  dugout  (I  have  a  private  one  now, 
with  a  stove,  a  tiny  window  sticking  up 
discreetly  six  inches  above  ground,  and 
pictures  on  the  walls),  and  the  tale  is  so 
typical  of  war-time  France  that  I  can't 
resist  telling  it  to  you. 

They  had  carried  on  quite  a  corre- 
spondence, as  godmother  and  godson, 
before  the  longed-for  permission  came; 

and  when  A ,  with  her  parents,  of 

course,  met  him  at  the  train,  she  seemed 
like  an  old  friend.  She  is  charming,  as  I 
know  from  her  photograph,  and  sturdy 
brown  Jean,  togged  out  in  his  special  per- 
mission uniform,  with  his  neat  shoes, 
bright  leather  puttees  and  belt,  kepi  de 
fantaisie,  and  gold  sergeant's  wound-  and 
service-stripes,  looks  every  inch  a  soldier 
of  France.  At  the  end  of  the  second  day, 

he  was  walking  with  A and  could 

contain  himself  no  longer. 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     29 

''Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "I  cannot, 
as  a  man  of  honor,  stay  here  longer.  I 
love  you,  —  there,  I  have  said  it,  —  but 
I  am  penniless,  and  after  the  war  shall 
have  only  what  I  can  earn.  Your  father, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  the  most  important 
merchant  in  this  district  —  so  you  see  it 
would  (even  if  you  were  willing)  be  quite 
impossible  for  me  to  ask  for  your  hand. 
I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  your 
kindness  to  a  poor  soldier;  it  has  given 
me  a  glimpse  of  Paradise." 

That  evening,  as  he  sat  in  his  room, 
trying  to  make  up  an  excuse  to  give  the 
old  people  for  leaving,  the  girl's  mother 
came  in,  saying  that  she  understood  he 
was  going,  and  was  much  hurt  to  think 
that  her  house  had  not  pleased  him. 
Then  the  old  gentleman  rushed  in,  ra- 
diant with  smiling  good  humor. 

"But  hush,  maman,"  he  cried,  "I 
know  all.  Also  I  know  a  man  when  I  see 
one.  You  love  our  little  A ,  eh,  ser- 


30  THE  FLEDGLING 

geant?  Well,  what  of  it?  And  you  are 
poor  —  well,  what  of  that?  When  we  old 
ones  are  gone,  she  will  have  everything  — 
she  is  all  we  have,  since  Louis  was  killed 
at  the  Marne.  You  are  a  type  that  I  love, 
my  boy  —  out  there  at  the  front,  helping 
to  push  the  Boche  out  of  France;  do  you 
suppose  I  would  not  rather  have  you  for 
a  son-in-law  than  some  sacre  espece  of  a 
rich  embusque, riding  by  in  his  limousine?" 

Rather  superb,  I  think. 

So,  as  an  engaged  man,  he  is  making 
a  poor  attempt  to  be  cautious.  Also,  he 
has  a  frightful  case  of  cafard,  that  mys- 
terious malady  of  the  trenches,  which  is 
nothing  but  concentrated  homesickness 
and  longing  for  the  sight  of  one's  women 
folk,  sweethearts,  sisters,  mothers.  A  cou- 
ple of  days  ago,  he  came  to  me  with  a  bril- 
liant idea. 

*'See,  Chariot,"  he  said,   "I  have  a 

scheme.    You   know   Lieutenant   P , 

chief  of  the  corps  franc  —  tell  him  of  me, 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     31 

that  I  can  speak  German  and  can  take 
prisoners,  and  tell  him  to  ask  my  captain 
to  detach  me  for  the  next  coup  de  main." 

To  understand  this,  you  must  know 
that  a  coup  de  main  is  a  raid,  made  after 
a  brief  artillery  preparation,  on  the  enemy 
trenches,  not  with  the  idea  of  gaining 
ground,  but  simply  to  get  a  few  prisoners 
for  information  regarding  regiments,  and 
so  forth.  In  the  French  army  such  raids 
are  made  by  special  selected  companies 
of  each  regiment,  who  have  no  routine 
duty  and  get  eight  days'  special  leave 
after  each  raid  that  results  in  prisoners. 
These  men  are  termed  "corps  franc."  As 
you  can  see,  Jean  thought  this  a  quick 
way  to  get  back  to  his  fiancee. 

While  we  talked,  by  a  freak  of  luck, 
who  should  knock  at  my  door  but  Lieu- 
tenant P ,  chief  of  our  local   corps 

franc,  a  very  good  friend  and  one  I  am 
proud  to  have.  He  is  the  perfect  quin- 
tessence of  a  French  subaltern,  —  twenty- 


32  THE  FLEDGLING 

six  years  old,  slight,  wiry,  and  handsome; 
an  Anglophile  in  everything  relating  to 
sport,  as  exquisite  in  dress  and  person 
as  Beau  Brummell,  and  as  recklessly 
brave  as  Morgan's  buccaneers.  He  has 
risen  from  the  ranks,  wears  a  gold  bracelet, 
and  has  every  decoration  that  a  French 
soldier  or  officer  can  get,  including  the 
red  ribbon.  His  Croix  de  Guerre  has  seven 
citations,  and  he  has  been  five  times 
wounded.  He  took  to  Jean  at  once,  saying 
that  he  needed  an  interpreter  for  a  raid 
which  was  coming  in  two  or  three  days, 
and  promised  to  see  the  captain  about  it 
at  once. 

"Better  come  with  us,"  he  said  to  me, 
whimsically.  "I  want  to  run  down  to 
Paris  next  week,  and  if  the  sergeant  here 
and  I  don't  get  a  prisoner  or  two,  it  will 
be  because  there  are  none  left  in  the  first 
line.  Come  on  —  you'll  see  some  fun!" 

"But,"  I  said,  "what  is  there  in  it  for 
me.^^  I'm  ruined  if  I'm  caught  in  any  such 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     33 

escapade,  and  in  any  case  I  get  no  per- 
mission." 

"Oh,  we'll  fix  that.  Maybe  you'd  get 
a  nice  little  wound  like  my  last  one;  and 
if  not,  I'm  an  expert  with  grenades;  I 
think  I  could  toss  one  so  you  would  just 
get  an  eclat  or  two  in  the  legs  —  good  for 
a  week  in  Paris." 

I  thanked  him  without  enthusiasm  and 
declined. 

The  sequel  to  this  came  last  night  as 
I  lay  reading  in  my  bunk.  The  evening 
had  been  absolutely  quiet,  not  a  rifle- 
shot along  the  trenches,  until  suddenly, 
about  10.30,  the  batteries  set  up  their 
sullen  thumping,  mingled  with  the  thud 
of  exploding  aerial  torpedoes. 

To  my  ears,  concentrated  artillery  fire 
—  not  too  far  off — has  a  strangely  mourn- 
ful sound  —  heavy,  dull,  and  fitful,  like  a 
dark  thunderstorm  in  Dante's  hell.  The 
bombardment  lasted  exactly  forty  min- 
utes, then  absolute  silence  except  for  an 


S4  THE  FLEDGLING 

occasional  pistol-shot  (no  one  uses  rifles 
in  raids),  and  once  more  the  sudden 
stammer  of  a  mitrailleuse.  As  I  lay  there, 
safe  in  my  warm  bunk,  I  thought  of 

gallant  little  P and  jolly  old  lovelorn 

Jean,  perhaps  at  that  moment  stealing 
through  torn  German  wire  with  a  brace 
of  prisoners  ahead  of  them,  crouching  low 
each  time  a  star-shell  sent  up  its  warning 
trail  of  sparks,  —  or  perhaps  — 

To-morrow,  when  I  go  back  to  the 
village  for  two  days'  rest,  I  shall  look  for 
them. 

April  10,  1917 

I  am  writing  this  in  a  new  post  of  ours 
—  a  village  several  kilometres  from  the 
lines,  where  there  are  still  civilians.  As 
the  hospital  is  very  noisy  at  night,  and 
one  would  have  to  sleep  in  a  barrack, 
packed  in  among  the  wounded,  I  have 
arranged  with  a  motherly  old  woman 
(patronne  of  the  local  cafe)   to  let  me 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     35 

have  her  spare  room.  I  found  an  old  cow- 
bell and  by  an  arrangement  of  strings  and 
hooks  have  rigged  it  so  that  it  can  be  rung 
at  night  from  the  street  below.  Talk  about 
luxury !  I  have  a  real  bed  (about  five  feet 
long)  with  sheets,  pillows,  and  a  feather- 
bed that  reaches  from  feet  to  waist.  When 
a  night  call  comes,  the  bell  tinkles,  I  leap 
out  of  bed,  pull  on  breeches  and  coat  and 
high  felt  "arctics,"  and  in  three  minutes 
am  off. 

As  there  are  no  men  about,  I  have 
been  (in  odd  moments)  splitting  wood 
and  moving  the  heavy  beer  and  wine 
casks  as  required  —  work  really  far  too 
heavy  for  women.  The  old  lady,  in  re- 
turn, often  invites  me  in  for  a  cup  of 
steaming  coflfee  with  a  dash  of  schnapps, 
and  to-day  she  asked  me  to  a  family 
dinner  —  a  superb  civilian  meal  of  ham 
and  boiled  potatoes  and  home-made  chou- 
croute.  The  latter  must  be  tasted  to  be 
appreciated.  She  is  quite  bitter  about  a 


36  THE  FLEDGLING 

branch  of  the  Y.M.C.A.  —  called  Foyer 
du  Soldat  —  just  opened  here,  which,  with 
its  free  movies,  papers,  and  so  forth,  has 
lured  away  much  of  her  trade.  "I  pay  a 
heavy  license  tax,"  she  says,  "'and  they 
pay  nothing  —  nothing." 

Useless  to  try  to  explain  to  the  good 
old  soul  that  the  innocent  must  suffer 
in  order  that  virtue  shall  triumph  —  or 
in  other  words,  that  the  fantassin  shall 
have  amusement  without  beer.  I  com- 
forted her  with  the  regrettable  truth 
that  her  boys  will  all  be  back  when  the 
novelty  is  worn  ofif. 

A  great  many  of  the  men  here  are 
muleteers  from  the  Spanish  and  Italian 
borders.  Where  the  country  is  hilly  and 
trails  constitute  the  shortest  route  to  the 
trenches,  the  French  use  a  great  many 
pack-mules  to  carry  up  provisions,  am- 
munition, and  supplies.  A  Western  packer 
would  be  interested  in  their  methods. 
Each  mule  has  its  master,  who  packs  it. 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     37 

washes  it,  feeds  it,  and  on  the  march 
walks  ahead,  leading  it  by  a  rope.  The 
pack-saddles  and  rigging  are  wonderful  — 
they  must  be  when  one  considers  that 
the  mules  often  carry  three  hundred 
pounds  twenty  miles  a  day,  and  sore 
backs  are  unknown. 

A  mule  's  a  mule,  however,  wherever 
you  meet  him  —  these  are  just  the  same 
"ornery"  brutes  we  have  at  home.  Their 
eflPect  on  the  explosive  southern  French 
temperament  is  sometimes  ludicrous.  I 
stopped  the  other  day  to  ask  the  way 
of  a  mule-skinner  who  was  limping  de- 
jectedly ahead  of  his  charge  —  the  rest 
of  the  train  was  far  ahead.  After  putting 
me  on  the  road,  he  leaned  wearily  against 
a  tree  and  explained  that  in  all  the  world 
there  was  probably  not  another  mule  like 
his.  It  had  kicked  him  yesterday,  it  had 
bitten  him  severely  this  morning,  and 
just  now,  while  he  adjusted  the  pack,  it 
had  kicked  him  on  the  hip,  so  that  in  all 


,S8  THE  FLEDGLING 

likelihood  he  would  limp  for  life.  While 
he  talked,  the  mule  sidled  over,  with 
drooping  eyelids  and  sagging  ears,  and 
planted  one  foot  firmly  on  the  unfortu- 
nate Frenchman's  toes.  The  whole  thing 
seemed  to  have  been  done  by  accident  — 
I  could  almost  see  the  dotted  line  of  inno- 
cence running  from  the  mule's  sleepy  eye 
off  into  space.  Without  a  word,  the  man 
set  his  shoulder  against  the  mule,  forced 
its  weight  off  his  foot,  and  tenderly  in- 
spected the  injured  part.  Then,  hands  on 
hips,  he  regarded  the  mule  with  a  long 
stare  of  dramatic  contempt. 

"Wouldst  thou  kill  me,  sacre  espece  of 
a  camel .f^"  he  said  at  last;  "well,  death 
would  be  better  than  this.  Come,  here 
lam!" 

The  day  before  yesterday,  when  I  was 
out  at  one  of  our  posts  on  the  front,  an 
Austrian  88  mm.  shell  fell  in  a  crowd  of 
mules  and  their  drivers.  Fortunately  no 
one  was  hurt  (by  one  of  the  freaks  of 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     39 

shells),  but  three  mules  were  killed  by 
the  splinters.  That  night,  with  some  mis- 
givings, I  tried  a  steak  from  the  hind- 
quarter  of  a  five-year-old  mule.  It  was 
bully.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  a 
mule  is  just  as  good  food  as  a  steer. 

A  week  ago  I  was  waiting  at  a  front 
post  for  some  wounded,  when  a  mule 
train  came  by,  packed  with  the  huge 
winged  aerial  torpedoes  so  much  in  vogue 
just  now.  Each  mule  carried  four  of  these 
truly  formidable  things.  As  the  last  mule 
passed,  he  slipped  on  the  muddy  slope, 
his  feet  flew  out,  and  down  he  came  with 
a  whack,  torpedoes  and  all.  You  ought 
to  have  seen  us  scatter,  —  officers,  men, 
and  mule-drivers,  —  like  fragments  of  a 
bursting  shell.  As  the  mule  showed  signs 
of  struggling,  we  had  to  rush  back  and 
gingerly  remove  the  load  before  helping 
him  up. 

These  torpedoes  play  a  great  part  in 
war  nowadays.  They  are  cheap  to  man- 


4a  THE  FLEDGLING 

ufacture,  carry  an  enormous  bursting 
charge,  and  —  shot  out  of  small  mortar- 
like guns,  into  which  the  steel  or  wooden 
**stem"  of  the  torpedo  is  inserted  — 
have  a  range  of  six  or  seven  hundred  yards. 
On  days  of  attack  you  can  see  them,  like 
huge  black  birds,  soar  slowly  up  from  be- 
hind the  trenches,  hang  poised  for  an 
instant,  and  dart  down  to  make  their  for- 
midable explosion,  which  sends  clouds  of 
debris,  timber,  and  dirt,  high  into  the 
air.  Their  fragments  are  very  bad  — 
long,  thin,  jagged  things  that  come  whiz- 
zing by  and  inflict  terrible  wounds.  Many 
of  them  are  equipped  with  "trailers," 
which  outline  their  course  in  a  shower  of 
crimson  sparks;  and  on  nights  of  attack 
the  sky  is  scored  with  their  fiery  trails. 

A  night  attack  is  a  wonderful  thing  to 
see:  the  steady  solemn  thunder  of  the 
guns,  the  sky  glaring  with  star-shells  and 
trails,  the  trenches  flaming  and  roaring 
with  bursting  shell.  It  is  like  a  vast  natu- 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     41 

ral  phenomenon,  —  Krakatoa  or  Mont 
Pelee,  —  too  vast  and  cataclysmic  to 
be  man's  handiwork;  and  yet,  into  the 
maelstrom  of  spouting  fla'mes,  hissing 
steel,  shattering  explosions,  insignificant 
little  creatures  like  you  and  me  will  pres- 
ently run  —  offering,  with  sublime  cour- 
age, their  tender  bodies  to  be  burned  and 
pierced  and  mangled.  To  me  that  is  war's 
one  redeeming  feature  —  it  brings  out  in 
men  a  courage  that  is  of  the  spirit  alone  — 
above  all  earthly  things. 

Ajxril  23,  1917 

I  am  sitting  again  in  the  little  post  I 
told  you  about  in  my  last  letter.  The  old 
lady  is  tidying  up  the  cafe,  the  early 
morning  sun  is  shining  in  gayly  through 
the  many-paned  windows,  and  outside, 
along  the  picket-line,  the  mules  are  squeal- 
ing and  kicking  while  they  have  their 
morning  bath.  Pretty  soon  I  shall  go  out 
foraging  for  a  brace  of  eggs,  and  with 


42  THE  FLEDGLING 

these,  a  piece  of  cheese,  and  some  coffee 
shall  make  my  dejemier. 

The  local  barrack  is  the  only  one  I 
have  found  where  one  simply  cannot  eat, 
as  the  cook  and  his  kitchen  are  unspeak- 
able. Unless  he  has  been  caught  out  in  a 
shower,  he  has  certainly  gone  without  a 
bath  since  the  war  started.  After  a  glance 
at  him  and  at  his  kitchen  even  the  most 
callous  poilu  rebels. 

We  have  now,  attached  to  our  section 
as  mechanic,  a  French  private  who  is 
rather  an  unusual  type  —  a  rich  manu- 
facturer in  civil  life,  who,  through  some 
kink  of  character,  has  not  risen  in  the 
army.  He  put  in  a  year  in  the  trenches 
and  then,  being  middle-aged,  was  put 
behind  the  lines.  He  speaks  English,  is 
splendidly  educated,  and  has  traveled 
everywhere,  but  is  too  indifferent  to 
public  opinion  ever  to  make  an  officer, 
or  even  a  non-com.  In  his  factory  he 
had   a  packer,  earning  seven  francs   a 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     43 

day,  who  was  also  mobilized,  and  who 
has  now  risen  to  the  rank  of  lieutenant. 
Think  of  the  gulf  between  a  poilu  and  a 
French  officer,  with  his  authority,  his 
galons  and  superb  red-and-gold  hat,  and 
then  consider  that  this  lieutenant's  idea 
of  a  permission  is  to  go  home,  put  on  his 
oldest  clothes,  and  spend  the  seven  days 
working  at  his  old  job  of  packing  and 
heading  barrels.  It  takes  France  to  pro- 
duce this  sort  of  thing. 

The  siege  warfare  to  which,  owing  to 
strategic  reasons,  we  are  reduced  in  our 
part  of  the  lines,  with  both  sides  playing 
the  part  of  besieged  and  besiegers,  gives 
rise  to  a  curious  unwritten  understanding 
between  ourselves  and  the  enemy.  Take 
the  hospital  corps,  their  first-aid  posts 
and  ambulances.  The  Germans  must 
know  perfectly  well  where  the  posts  are, 
but  they  scarcely  ever  shell  them  —  not 
from  any  humanitarian  reason,  but  be- 
cause  if   they   did,    the   French   would 


44  THE  FLEDGLING 

promptly  blow  theirs  to  pieces.  It  is  a 
curious  sensation  to  liye  in  such  a  place, 
with  the  knowledge  that  this  is  the  only- 
reason  you  enjoy  your  comparative  safety. 
Likewise  our  ambulances.  I  often  go  over 
a  road  in  perfectly  plain  view  of  the 
Boche,  only  a  few  hundred  yards  distant, 
and  though  shells  and  shrapnel  often 
come  my  way,  I  am  confident  none  of 
them  are  aimed  at  me.  The  proof  of  it  is 
that  no  one  has  ever  taken  a  pot-shot  at 
me  with  rifle  or  machine-gun,  either  one 
of  which  would  be  a  sure  thing  at  the 
range.  The  other  day  an  oflScer  invited 
me  down  to  see  his  newly  completed  ob- 
servatory —  a  cunningly  built,  almost  in- 
visible stronghold  on  the  crest  of  a  hill, 
which  commanded  a  superb  view  of  the 
trenches  and  German  territory  behind 
them.  It  chanced  to  be  an  afternoon  of 
unusual  interest.  The  trenches,  about 
eight  hundred  yards  distant,  were  spread 
like  a  map  beneath  us,  —  a  labyrinth  of 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     45 

zigzag  ditches  and  boyaux,  —  all  cun- 
ningly laid  out  on  principles  which  I  have 
been  studying.  With  the  powerful  glasses 
lent  me,  I  could  make  out  the  thickets  of 
wire  before  the  first  lines.  A  heavy  bom- 
bardment was  in  progress,  and  all  along 
the  lines,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see, 
clouds  of  smoke  and  earth  were  springing 
up  and  settling  slowly  down.  Not  a  living 
being  was  in  sight.  Far  oflF  to  the  south, 
a  flock  of  observation  balloons  floated 
motionless,  high  in  air,  like  fat,  hovering 
birds.  Suddenly  the  man  beside  me,  who 
had  been  staring  through  his  glasses  at  a 
twenty-acre  patch  of  woods  a  couple  of 
miles  away,  gave  an  excited  exclamation. 
*'I  have  spotted  it  —  the  new  battery  of 
heavy  guns  that  has  been  annoying  us; 
they  were  too  bold,  for  once." 

Sure  enough,  I  thought  I  made  out  a 
thin  wisp  of  smoke  trailing  among  the 
tree-tops  at  the  south  end  of  the  wood. 

The  officer  muttered  a  string  of  ca- 


46  THE  FLEDGLING 

balistic  instructions  into  his  telephone 
receiver  and  motioned  me  to  watch.  A 
minute  later,  a  battery  of  French  heavy- 
guns  behind  us  began  their  deep,  cough- 
ing thumps,  sending  enormous  shells 
hurtling  overhead  with  the  pulsing  rush 
of  an  express  train,  crescendo  and  dimin- 
uendo. The  first  shell  fell  short,  show- 
ering the  trees  with  earth  and  debris  — 
the  salvos  that  followed  obscured  the 
whole  wood  in  clouds  of  smoke,  broken 
branches,  and  dust.  Twenty  minutes  of 
this  before  the  battery  went  silent  again. 
A  final  tremendous  explosion,  eclipsing 
all  that  had  gone  before,  seemed  to  shake 
the  trees  to  their  roots. 

**That  will  hold  them  for  a  while," 
said  my  friend  exultantly,  as  he  tele- 
phoned the  news  back  to  his  battery; 
"we  must  have  hit  their  magazine  of 
propelling  charges." 

Next  day  I  was  sitting  at  lunch  in 
our  mess,  distant  about  three  hundred 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     47 

yards  from  the  observatory,  when  a 
series  of  heavy,  racking  explosions  made 
the  windows  rattle.  There  is  a  distinct 
difference  between  the  sound  of  a  gun 
and  that  of  a  bursting  shell.  The  first 
is  a  cracking  hang,  or  bourn,  as  the  French 
say*  The  latter  is  a  racking,  dwelling 
roar  —  drawn  out,  if  such  a  thing  can  be 
said  of  an  explosion.  Shells  were  burst- 
ing somewhere  close  to  us  —  many  of 
them.  When  I  went  outside  I  could  hear, 
clear  and  waspish  above  the  din,  the 
'pinging  of  splinters  whizzing  overhead, 
and  the  occasional  crackle  of  a  lopped-off 
branch.  After  half  an  hour  of  this,  a  man 
came  panting  up  with  the  bad  news  that 
the  new  observatory  was  completely  de- 
molished. There  you  have  the  inner  work- 
ings of  siege-war;  the  Boches,  with  un- 
canny craft,  knew  of  the  observatory,  let 
the  French  complete  it,  and  might  have 
let  it  alone,  had  it  not  been  instrumental 
in   destroying   their   battery.   That   led 


48  THE  FLEDGLING 

them  into  their  indiscreet  action,  for  the 
French,  in  retahation,  promptly  wiped  off 
the  map  the  most  important  German 
observatory  —  an  elaborate  affair  whose 
exact  location  they  had  long  known.  This 
time  the  Boche  did  not  dare  retaliate. 
And  so  it  goes. 

There  is  a  crack  French  gun-pointer 
near  here  who  has  brought  down  seven 
enemy  planes  in  the  past  two  months 
—  a  remarkable  record  in  this  quiet 
district.  The  last  one  fell  close  to  one 
of  our  posts  —  its  two  passengers,  Ger- 
man lieutenants,  were  dead,  but  scarcely 
marked  by  their  drop  into  a  snow-drift. 
One  of  them,  a  handsome  young  chap,  with 
a  little  blond  mustache,  wore  a  gold  brace- 
let, and  in  his  pocket  was  a  letter  from 
his  mother,  accusing  him  of  being  an 
ungrateful  son,  who  had  only  written 
twice  in  six  months.  Rather  pathetic. 
There  is  a  sort  of  chivalry  in  the  air 
service  which  is  a  relief  in  the  sordid 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     49 

monotony  of  this  war.  A  German  plane 
was  crippled  a  while  ago,  and  had  to 
volplane  down  smack  into  a  parade- 
ground  where  a  French  regiment  was  at 
drill.  The  soldiers  rushed  out  to  make 
prisoners  of  the  two  German  officers, 
who  were  not  a  hundred  yards  up;  but 
the  latter,  with  indomitable  courage, 
loosed  their  Spandaus  on  the  crowd,  and 
were  promptly  riddled  with  bullets  by 
the  reluctant  French.  They  received  a 
funeral  in  accordance  with  their  splendid 
death. 

The  code  of  the  Prussian  officer  is 
never  to  surrender;  but  of  course  all 
cannot  live  up  to  this.  In  a  recent  raid, 
a  sergeant  I  know  made  a  prisoner  of 
a  German  captain,  who,  as  they  walked 
to  the  rear,  cursed  his  luck  in  fluent 
French,  saying  that  he  was  caught  un- 
aware —  that  an  officer  never  surren- 
dered, but  fought  to  the  end. 

''Stop  here,  my  captain,  and  let  us 


60  THE  FLEDGLING 

consider  this,"  said  the  sergeant  seriously; 
**  there  are  several  articles  of  your  equip- 
ment to  which  my  fancy  runs  —  that 
watch,  for  example,  those  leather  puttees, 
and  that  fat  purse  I  saw  you  change  to 
your  hip-pocket.  Perhaps  I  can  at  once 
oblige  you  and  gratify  my  whim.  Sup- 
pose you  were  suddenly  to  run  —  a  quick 
shot  would  save  your  honor,  and  me  the 
trouble  of  escorting  you  back  to  the  rear. 
And  I  am  an  excellent  shot,  je  vous  as- 
sure." But  the  German  was  not  interested. 

Ajyril  26,  1917 

This  afternoon  the  general  of  the 
division  ordered  us  to  present  ourselves 
at  headquarters  at  four  o'clock.  From 
lunch  on  there  was  a  great  shaving  and 
haircutting,  brushing  and  pressing  of 
uniforms,  and  overhauling  of  shoes  and 
puttees.  Four  o'clock  found  us  lined  up 
at  the  door  of  the  wonderful  old  chateau, 
and  next  moment  a  superb  officer,  who 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     51 

spoke  English,  —  of  the  Oxford  variety, 
—  stepped  out,  introduced  himself  all 
around  with  charming  courtesy,  took  our 
names,  and  ushered  us  in. 

The  general,  a  hawk-faced  man  of 
sixty,  straight  and  slender  as  an  arrow, 
with  sparkling  dark  eyes,  stood  sur- 
rounded by  his  resplendent  staff.  As  each 
name  was  announced,  we  walked  forward 
to  him,  saluted  and  bowed,  and  shook 
hands.  This  over,  we  stepped  back  and 
mingled  with  the  staff  officers,  who  dis- 
played a  wonderful  trick  of  making  us  feel 
at  home  in  the  first  stiffness.  Presently 
orderlies  brought  in  champagne  and 
glasses,  and  when  every  one  had  his  glass 
in  hand  the  buzz  stopped  while  the  general 
spoke. 

"Your  country,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
"has  done  France  the  honor  of  setting 
aside  this  day  for  her.  It  is  fitting  that 
I  should  ask  you  here,  in  order  to  tell 
you  how  much  we  appreciate  America's 


52  THE  FLEDGLING 

friendship,  which  you  and  your  com- 
rades have  been  demonstrating  by  actions 
rather  than  words.  I  am  an  old  man,  but 
I  tell  you  my  heart  beat  like  a  boy's 
when  the  news  came  that  the  great  Sister 
Republic  —  united  of  old  by  ideals  of 
human  liberty  —  had  thrown  in  her  lot 
with  ours.  I  ask  you  to  drink  with  me  to 
the  future  of  France  and  America  —  the 
sure  future.  You  have  seen  France:  our 
brave  women,  ready  to  make  any  sacri- 
fices for  the  motherland;  our  little  soldiers, 
invincible  in  their  determination.  Let  us 
drink  then  to  France,  to  America,  and  to 
the  day  of  ultimate  victory,  which  is  com- 
ing as  surely  as  the  sun  will  rise  to- 
morrow." 

As  he  ceased,  he  stepped  forward  to 
touch  glasses  with  each  of  us,  —  the 
invariable  French  custom,  —  and  next 
moment  a  magnificent  Chasseur  band, 
outside  on  the  terrace,  crashed  into  the 
"Star-Spangled  Banner."  Quite  thrilling. 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     53 

I  assure  you.  Later,  we  strolled  through 
the  fine  old  gardens,  chatting  with  the 
ofiieers  while  the  band  played.  The  gen- 
eral, while  the  most  military  man  imagin- 
able, has  a  very  attractive  brusque  affa- 
bility. We  are  a  good-sized  crowd  as 
Americans  run,  and  the  French,  who 
average  shorter  and  stockier,  never  cease 
to  wonder  at  our  height.  The  old  chap 
grabbed  three  or  four  of  us  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  lined  us  up. 

"Mais  vous  etes  des  gaillards,"  he 
said,  smiling;  "see,  I  am  five  or  six 
centimetres  shorter  than  any  of  you. 
But  wait,  we  have  a  giant  or  two." 

With  that  he  called  over  a  grinning 
captain  and  pulled  him  back  to  back 
with  our  biggest  man,  whom  he  topped 
by  a  full  inch. 

"But,  my  general,"  laughed  the  of- 
ficer, "it  is  not  good  to  be  so  tall  —  too 
much  of  one  sticks  out  of  a  trench." 

The  owner  of  the  chateau  —  a  stately 


54  THE  FLEDGLING 

woman  of  fifty,  proud  of  her  name,  her 
race,  and  her  country,  and  an  angel  from 
heaven  to  the  sick  and  poor  for  miles 
around  —  is  an  example  oi  the  kind  of 
patriotism  of  which,  I  fear,  we  are  in 
need.  Her  husband  is  dead;  when  the  war 
broke  out  she  had  a  daughter  and  two 
sons  —  gallant  young  officers  whose  brief 
lives  had  been  a  constant  source  of  satis- 
faction and  pride  to  their  mother.  The 
elder  was  killed  at  the  Marne,  and  a  while 
ago,  the  younger,  her  special  pet,  was 
killed  here  in  an  attack.  A  woman  of 
her  kind,  to  whom  the  continuance  of 
an  old  name  was  almost  a  religion,  could 
undergo  no  harder  experience.  At  the 
grave-side  she  stood  erect  and  dry-eyed, 
with  a  little  proud  smile  on  her  lips,  as 
her  last  boy  was  buried.  "Why  should  I 
weep?"  she  asked  some  one  who  would 
have  comforted  her;  "there  is  nothing 
finer  my  boys  could  have  done  if  they 
had  lived  out  their  lives."  Her  heart  must 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     55 

be  very  nearly  broken  in  two,  but  never 
a  sign  does  she  give;  going  about  among 
her  hospitals  and  peasant  families  as 
cheerful,  interested,  even  gay,  as  if  her 
only  cares  were  for  others.  There  is  true 
courage  for  you ! 

To-day  I  went  to  a  new  post  for  some 
sick  men,  and  who  should  be  waiting  for 
me  but  my  friend  Jean,  of  whom  I  wrote 
you  before!  His  company  has  been  trans- 
ferred to  this  place.  It  was  great  to  see 
his  grinning  face  and  to  chatter  Spanish 
with  him.  As  the  sick  men  had  not  fin- 
ished lunch,  Jean  asked  me  to  his  mess, 
and  we  had  a  jolly  meal  with  his  pals.  I 
have  had  to  give  up  wine,  as  it  seems  to 
blacken  our  teeth  horribly  (all  of  us  have 
noticed  it,  and  we  can  trace  it  to  no  other 
source),  and  the  Frenchmen  can't  get 
over  the  joke  of  seeing  one  drink  water 
—  extraordinary  stuff  to  drink!  All  right 
to  run  under  bridges  or  for  washing  pur- 
poses, but  as  a  beverage  —  a  quaint  Amer- 


56  THE  FLEDGLING 

ican  conceit,  handed  down  no  doubt  from 
the  red  aborigines  —  les  peaux  rouges  in- 
digenes—  of  our  continent.  Jean  ad- 
mitted that  since  December,  1914,  he 
had  not  tasted  water,  and  no  one  else 
could  remember  the  last  occasion  when  he 
had  tried  it. 

As  word  had  just  come  from  the 
trenches  that  a  wounded  man  was  on 
the  way  in,  I  got  my  helmet  and  we 
strolled  down  the  boyau  to  meet  the 
stretcher-bearers.  It  was,  to  me,  a  new 
section  of  the  front  and  very  interesting. 
The  country  is  broken  and  hilly,  and  the 
lines  zigzag  about  from  crest  to  valley 
in  the  most  haphazard  way,  which  really 
has  been  painfully  worked  out  to  prevent 
enfilading  fire.  There  is  scarcely  any 
fighting  here,  as  neither  side  has  any- 
thing to  gain  by  an  advance,  which  would 
mean  giving  up  their  present  artillery 
positions. 

In  one  place  the  boyau  ran  down  a 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     57 

steep  slope,  badly  exposed,  and  Jean 
said,  "Follow  me  on  the  run!"  We 
sprinted  for  twenty  yards,  and  next 
moment,  tat-tat-tat-tat  came  from  the 
Boehes,  and  little  spurts  of  dust  shot 
up  behind  us.  They  can  never  shoot 
quickly  enough  to  hurt  any  one  at  this 
point,  Jean  said,  but  after  all,  "You 
can't  blame  a  fellow  for  trying." 

At  the  next  turn  we  came  on  a  train 
of  the  little  grenade  donkeys  —  so  small 
that  they  make  the  tiniest  Mexican 
burro  seem  a  huge  clumsy  brute.  They 
do  not  show  above  the  shallowest  trench, 
and  each  one  carries  two  panniers  full 
of  grenades.  These  last  are  vicious  little 
things  of  cast  iron,  checkered  so  as  to 
burst  into  uniform  square  fragments,  and 
about  the  size  and  shape  of  lemons.  They 
make  an  astonishingly  loud  bang  when 
they  go  off,  and  if  close  enough,  as  in  a 
narrow  trench,  are  pretty  bad.  At  a  little 
distance,  of  course,  they  are  not  very 


58  THE  FLEDGLING 

dangerous.  In  the  trench  warfare  —  raids, 
infantry  attacks,  and  so  forth  —  they 
seem  to  have  supplanted  rifles,  just  as 
the  knife  has  supplanted  the  bayonet. 

May  11,  1917 

Sunday,  another  lovely  day.  It  is 
7  A.M.,  and  already  the  indefinable  Sun- 
day atmosphere  has  come  over  the  camp. 
The  shower-baths  are  open  and  strings 
of  men  are  coming  and  going  with  towels 
on  their  arms.  Under  the  trees  little 
groups  are  shaving  and  cutting  one  an- 
other's hair,  amid  much  practical  joking 
and  raillery. 

One  becomes  very  fond  of  the  French 
soldier.  Large  floods  of  rhetoric  have 
been  poured  out  in  describing  him,  and 
yet  nearly  every  day  one  discovers  in 
him  new  and  interesting  traits.  Let  me 
try  to  sketch  for  you  a  composite  pic- 
ture of  the  French  infantryman  —  the 
fantassin  who   is  winning  the  war  for 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     59 

France.  On  the  whole,  I  do  not  see  him 
as  a  boy,  but  as  a  sturdy  middle-aged 
man  —  the  father  of  a  family.  He  is 
short  and  solidly  built,  with  thick  calves 
and  heavy  shoulders.  His  round  head, 
on  which  the  hair  is  short,  crisp,  and 
black,  is  surmounted  by  a  battered  blue 
helmet.  He  wears  a  long  overcoat,  looped 
up  and  buttoned  at  the  sides,  showing 
evidence,  in  several  places,  of  home- 
made patching.  It  was  once  horizon  blue, 
but  has  now  faded  to  an  ideally  pro- 
tective shade  of  blue-green-gray.  About 
his  middle  is  a  worn  cartridge-belt,  and 
from  either  shoulder,  their  straps  crossing 
on  breast  and  back,  hang  his  musettes  — 
bags  of  brown  canvas  for  carrying  extra 
odds  and  ends,  including  everything  from 
a  bottle  of  wine  to  a  dictionary.  On  his 
back  is  his  square  pack,  an  affair  of  for- 
midable weight,  to  which  he  has  lashed 
his  rolled  blanket  in  the  form  of  a  horse- 
shoe, points  down.  Perched  on  top  of  this. 


60  THE  FLEDGLING 

he  carries  his  gamelle  and  quart  —  the 
saucepan  and  cup  which  serve  for  both 
cooking  and  eating;  and  beside  them 
you  perceive  with  astonishment  that 
he  has  strapped  a  large  German  trench 
torpedo  —  a  souvenir  for  the  home  folks. 
From  his  belt  hangs  the  tin  box,  painted 
horizon-blue,  which  contains  his  gas- 
mask, and  on  the  other  side  his  long 
slender  bayonet  rattles  against  his  thigh. 
A  large  calloused  hand,  not  too  clean, 
holds  his  shouldered  rifle  at  a  most  un- 
military  angle.  The  gun  has  seen  hard 
service,  the  wood  is  battered,  and  in 
places  bright  steel  shows  through  the 
bluing;  but  look  closely  and  you  will 
see  that  it  is  carefully  greased,  and  in 
the  muzzle  a  little  plug  of  cloth  keeps 
out  dust  and  moisture.  In  spite  of  a 
load  which  would  make  a  burro  groan, 
he  walks  sturdily,  whistling  a  march 
between  puflFs  of  a  cigarette.  Glance  at 
his  face.  The  eyes  are  dark  gray,  deep- 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     61 

set,  and  twinkling  with  good  humor; 
they  are  the  clear  decisive  eyes  of  a  man 
who  knows  what  he  wants  and  has  set 
about  getting  it.  The  nose  is  aquiline, 
the  mouth  strong  and  ironically  humor- 
ous, the  unshaven  chin  positive  and 
shapely.  It  is  the  face  of  a  breed  that 
has  been  settling  to  type  for  many  cen- 
turies, a  race  old  in  cultivation  and 
philosophy. 

What  is  he  in  civil  life?  That  is  hard 
to  say.  A  lawyer,  a  farmer,  a  custom- 
house clerk,  a  cook  —  probably  a  cook; 
most  of  them  seem  to  be  cooks,  and 
mighty  good  ones.  Ours  at  the  mess  was 
assistant  chef  at  the  Savoy,  in  London, 
and  when  he  has  the  material  (for  ex- 
ample a  hind-quarter  of  mule,  a  few 
potatoes,  some  dandelions,  a  tin  of  lob- 
ster, and  an  egg)  he  can  turn  out  a  dinner 
hard  to  equal  anywhere  —  delicious  hors 
d'oeuvres,  superb  soup,  roast,  saute  po- 
tatoes, salad,  and  so  on* 


62  THE  FLEDGLING 

The  French  soldier's  one  great  joy 
and  privilege  is  to  grumble.  Back  in 
billets  where  he  goes  to  rest,  he  spends 
the  whole  day  at  it  —  hour  after  hour, 
over  a  bock  or  a  litre  of  wine,  he  com- 
plains of  everything:  the  food,  the  uni- 
forms, the  trenches,  the  artillery,  the 
war  itself.  To  hear  him,  one  would  sup- 
pose that  France  was  on  the  verge  of 
ruin  and  disintegration.  Let  some  im- 
wise  stranger  make  the  slightest  criti- 
cism of  France,  and  watch  the  change. 
The  poilu  takes  the  floor  with  a  bound. 
There  is  no  country  like  France  —  no 
better  citizens  or  braver  soldiers  than  the 
French. 

"Dis  done,  mon  vieux,"  he  ends  tri- 
imiphantly,  "where  would  Europe  be 
now  if  it  were  not  for  us.f^" 

To  be  a  French  general  is  a  terrible 
responsibility.  Their  ears  must  burn  con- 
tinually, for  every  act  is  criticized,  picked 
to  pieces,  and  proved  a  fatal  mistake. 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     63 

daily,  in  a  thousand  roadside  wine-shops. 
Some  celebrity  once  remarked,  that  every 
French  soldier  was  a  potential  general. 
He  knew  them;  he  was  right.  They  are  no 
carping  destructive  critics  who  tear  things 
down  but  suggest  no  method  of  build- 
ing up.  On  the  contrary,  any  chance- 
met  poilu  will  tell  you  exactly  how  any 
maneuver  or  bit  of  strategy  should  be 
carried  out  —  from  a  trench-raid  to  an 
enveloping  movement,  which  will  —  he  is 
sure  of  it !  —  net  fifty  thousand  prisoners. 
In  last  night's  coup  de  main  they  caught 
only  three  Germans.  "Do  you  know 
why,  my  friend?  I  will  tell  you.  Our  ar- 
tillery cut  the  wires  all  right,  and  tapped 
on  the  front  trench.  Good.  After  that 
they  raised  their  guns  for  the  barrage, 
but  pouf!  the  Boches  had  already  run 
back  to  their  dugouts  in  the  second  or 
third  lines.  Had  the  gunners  made  a 
barrage  on  the  second  line  from  the  be- 
ginning, the  Germans  would  have  been 


64  THE  FLEDGLING 

forced  to  remain  in  the  first  line,  and 
instead  of  three,  we  would  have  bagged 
thirty.  Oh,  well,  we  get  our  extra  leave 
anyhow,  and  you  should  have  heard 
them  squeal  when  we  dropped  grenades 
down  their  stove-pipes!" 

The  French  infantryman  would  drive 
a  foreign  oflBcer  mad  until  he  began  to 
understand  him  and  appreciate  his  splen- 
did hidden  qualities.  The  only  thing 
he  does  without  grumbling  is  fight;  and, 
after  all,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
that  is  a  rather  important  part  of  a 
soldier's  duty. 

An  officer  wants  a  new  boyau  dug  — 
you  never  heard  such  grumbling  and 
groaning  and  kicking.  Finally,  a  bit  put 
out,  he  says,  — 

"All  right,  don't  dig  it,  if  you  are  all 
sick  and  tired,  and  think  I  make  you 
work  simply  to  keep  you  busy.  It  was 
only  a  whim  of  mine  anyhow  —  the 
Boches  put  up  a  new  machine-gun  last 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     65 

night,  which  enfilades  the  old  boyau, 
and  when  day  breaks  and  you  go  back  to 
the  third  lines,  they  will  doubtless  put  a 
dozen  of  us  out  of  our  misery." 

As  if  by  magic  the  new  zigzag  trench 
is  dug,  and  the  chances  are  that  the 
officer  finds  a  supply  of  extra-good  fire- 
wood in  his  abri  next  day. 

In  an  army  like  France's,  one  finds 
many  odd  birds  among  the  simple  sol- 
diers. I  was  playing  ** shinny"  (we  in- 
troduced it  and  it  has  become  very  pop- 
ular in  our  section)  the  other  evening, 
and,  when  a  soldier  took  off  his  coat, 
four  thousand  francs  in  bills  dropped 
out  of  the  breast  pocket.  Another  eve- 
ning, in  a  cafe,  a  roughly  dressed  soldier 
stood  up  to  give  us  a  bit  of  music  —  and 
for  an  hour  the  world  seemed  to  stand 
still  while  one  of  the  greatest  violinists 
of  France  (two  years  at  the  front,  twice 
wounded,  Croix  de  Guerre,  with  several 
citations)  made  us  forget  that  anything 


66  THE  FLEDGLING 

existed  except  a  flood  of  clear  throbbing 
sound.  It  was  a  rough,  drinking  crowd  — 
a  moment  before  there  had  been  a  pan- 
demonium of  loud  voices  and  clattering 
plates;  but  for  an  hour  the  listeners  were 
still  as  death  —  not  a  whisper,  not  even 
a  hand-clap  of  applause.  It  was,  I  think, 
the  finest  tribute  I  ever  saw  paid  a  mu- 
sician. And  so  it  goes:  one  never  knows 
what  variety  of  man  is  hidden  beneath 
the  uniform  of  faded  horizon-blue. 

June  17,  1917 

At  last  I  am  free  to  sit  down  quietly 
for  a  letter  to  you.  It  has  been  a  week 
of  rather  frenzied  running  about  —  pass- 
ing examinations,  and  the  like.  I  arrived 
here  in  the  expectation  of  taking  the  first 
boat,  crossing  the  continent,  and  seeing 
you. 

A  talk  with  some  American  officers 
changed  the  whole  aspect  of  affairs  and 
showed  me  that,  if  I  was  to  be  of  any  use, 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     67 

my  job  was  to  remain  here.  At  home,  it 
seems,  men  are  a  drug  on  the  market  — 
the  rub  is  to  train  them  and  fit  them  in. 
Here,  on  the  other  hand,  they  fairly  wel- 
come healthy  young  men  —  and  will 
train  us  and  put  us  where  we  will  do  the 
most  good,  with  the  least  possible  delay. 
Don't  let  yourself  think  that  flying  over 
here  is  unduly  hazardous  —  a  skillful  pi- 
lot (as  I  hope  to  be)  has  as  good  a  chance 
of  living  to  a  ripe  old  age  as  his  comrades 
in  the  infantry.  Numbers  of  them  have 
been  at  it  since  1914.  The  school  where 
I  hope  to  be  is  the  finest  in  the  world, 
and  the  machines  are  beyond  praise. 

Since  writing  the  above,  I  have  re- 
ceived my  papers  of  acceptance  in  the 
Foreign  Legion,  conditional  on  passing 
the  French  physical  tests.  I  have  already 
passed  the  tests  of  the  Franco-American 
Committee.  Before  cabling  I  took  all  the 
tests. 


68  THE  FLEDGLING 

Later 

I  have  passed  the  French  examination 
and  am  to  leave  for  the  school  in  a  day 
or  two.  I  have  been  lucky ! 

It  was  interesting  at  the  Paris  re- 
cruiting oflSce.  I  stood  in  line  with  dozens 
of  other  recruits  for  the  Foreign  Legion  — 
all  of  us  naked  as  so  many  fish,  in  the 
dirty  corridor,  waiting  our  turns.  Each 
man   had   a  number:   mine   was   seven 

—  lucky,  I  think!  Finally  the  orderly 
shouted,  "Numero  sept,"  and  I  separated 
myself  from  my  jolly  polyglot  neigh- 
bors, marched  to  the  door,  did  a  demi-tour 
a  gauche,  and  came  to  attention  before  a 
colonel,  two  captains,  and  a  sergeant. 

"Name,  Nordhoff,  Charles  Bernard  — 
born  at  London,  1887  —  American  citizen 

—  unmarried  —  no  children  —  desires 
to  enlist  in  Foreign  Legion  for  duration 
of  war  —  to  be  detached  to  the  navigat- 
ing personnel  of  the  Aviation,"  read  the 
sergeant,  monotonously.  In  two  minutes 


A  WATCHER  OF  THE  SKIES     69 

I  had  been  weighed,  measured,  stetho- 
scoped, ears  and  eyes  tested,  and  passed. 

The  colonel  looked  at  me  coldly  and 
turned  to  the  captain. 

"Not  so  bad,  this  one,  hein?  He  has 
not  the  head  of  a  beast." 

I  bowed  with  all  the  dignity  a  naked 
man  can  muster,  and  said  respectfully, 
"Merci,  mon  colonel." 

"Ah,  you  speak  French,"  he  rejoined 
with  a  smile;  "good  luck,  then,  my 
American." 


n 

THE  FLEDGLING 

Here  at  Avord  there  are  about  seventy- 
jSve  Americans  of  every  imaginable  sort  — 
sailors,  prize-fighters,  men  of  the  Foreign 
Legion,  and  a  good  scattering  of  Univer- 
sity men.  As  good  a  fellow  as  any  is  H , 

formerly  a  chauffeur  in  San  Francisco. 
He  is  pleasant,  jolly,  and  hard-working, 
with  an  absurdly  amiable  weakness  for 
"crap-shooting,"  in  which  he  indulges  at 
all  times,  seconded  by  an  American  darky 
who  is  a  pilot  here  —  and  a  good  one. 

I  can  hear  them  as  I  write,  snapping 
their  fingers  as  the  dice  roll:  "Come  on 
'leben  —  little  seben,  be  good  to  me! 
Fifty  days  —  little  Phoebe  —  fever  in 
the  South!  Read  'em  and  weep!  Ten 
francs  —  let  'er  ride.  I'll  fade  you!" 
The  crap-shooting  circle  is  always  either 


THE  FLEDGLING  71 

stuflfed  with  banknotes  or  reduced  to  a 
few  sous  —  which  latter  predicament  is  a 
bit  serious  here,  where  we  have  to  pay 
eight  to  ten  francs  a  day  to  get  suflScient 
nourishing  food. 

We  sleep  in  barracks,  about  twenty 
to  the  room,  on  cots  with  straw  mat- 
tresses. All  days  are  pretty  much  alike. 
At  3  A.M.  a  funny  little  Annamite  China- 
man, with  betel-blackened  teeth,  comes 
softly  in  and  shakes  you  by  the  shoulder 
in  an  absurdly  deprecating  way.  You 
reach  for  your  tin  cup,  and  he  pours  out 
a  quarter-litre  of  fearful  but  hot  liquid, 
somewhat  resembling  coffee.  Then  a  cigar- 
ette in  bed,  amid  drowsy  yawns  and 
curses;  a  pulling  on  of  breeches,  golf- 
stockings,  and  leather  coats;  a  picking 
up  of  helmets,  and  a  sleepy  march  to  the 
bureau,  under  the  wind-gauges,  barom- 
eters, and  the  great  red  balls  that  show 
the  passing  side  (right  or  left)  for  the  day. 

'*Rassemblement!     Mettez-vous     sur 


1%  THE  FLEDGLING 

quatre!"  barks  the  adjutant,  and  off  we 
go  to  the  field.  There  till  nine,  or  till  the 
wind  becomes  too  strong  —  each  man 
taking  his  sortie  of  ten  minutes  as  his 
name  is  called.  Back  about  ten;  then  a 
lecture  till  eleven,  a  discussion  after  that, 
and  the  first  meal  of  the  day.  Sleep  after- 
wards till  three  or  three-thirty;  then  a 
bath,  a  shave,  brush  teeth,  and  clean  up 
in  general.  At  five,  assembly  again,  the 
same  march,  the  same  lessons  till  nine; 
then  a  meal,  a  smoke,  and  to  bed  at 
eleven. 

It  has  been  a  bit  strenuous  this  past 
month,  getting  accustomed  to  this  life, 
which  is  easy,  but  absurdly  irregular. 
Up  at  3.30  A.M.,  and  never  to  bed  before 
11  P.M.  Meals  snatched  wherever  and 
whenever  possible.  Some  sleep  by  day  is 
indispensable,  but  difficult  in  a  barrack- 
room  with  twenty  other  men,  not  all  of 
whom  are  sleepy.  This,  together  with 
fleas   and   even   more   unwelcome   little 


THE  FLEDGLING  73 

nocturnal  visitors,  has  made  me  rather 
irregular  in  my  habits,  but  now  I  have 
got  into  a  sort  of  regime  —  four  and  a 
half  hours  of  sleep  at  night,  some  sleep 
every  afternoon,  and  decent  meals.  Also 
I  have  discovered  a  sort  of  chrysanthe- 
mum powder,  which,  with  one  of  the 
"anti"  lotions,  fairly  ruins  my  small 
attackers.  Baths,  thank  Heaven!  I  can 
get  every  day  —  with  a  sponge  and  soap. 
There  is  no  real  hardship  about  this  life  — 
it  is  simply  a  matter  of  readjusting  one's 
self  to  new  conditions  and  learning  where 
and  what  to  eat,  how  to  sleep,  how  to  get 
laundry  done,  and  so  forth. 

This  school  is  superb.  I  shall  have  the 
honor  of  being  one  of  the  last  men  in  the 
world  trained  on  the  famous  Bleriot  mon- 
oplane—  obsolete  as  a  military  plane, 
but  the  best  of  all  for  training,  because 
the  most  difficult.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  one  is  alone, 
it  is  said  to  be  the  safest  of  all  training. 


74  THE  FLEDGLING 

because  you  practically  learn  to  fly  in  the 
"Penguins"  before  leaving  the  ground; 
and  also  because  you  can  fall  incredible 
distances  without  getting  a  bruise. 

In  practically  all  of  the  French  planes 
the  system  of  control  is  the  same.  You 
sit  on  cushions  in  a  comfortable  lit- 
tle chair  —  well  strapped  in,  clothed  in 
leathers  and  helmet.  At  your  left  hand 
are  two  little  levers,  one  the  mixture, 
the  other  the  throttle.  Your  right  con- 
trols the  manche-a-balai,  or  cloche  —  a 
push  forward  causes  the  machine  to  point 
downward  (pique)  and  a  pull  back  makes 
it  rise.  Moving  it  sideways  controls  the 
ailerons,  or  warps  the  wings  —  if  you  tip 
left,  you  move  the  cloche  right.  Your  feet 
rest  on  a  pivoted  bar  which  controls  the 
rudder. 

To  rise,  you  head  into  the  wind,  open 
the  throttle  (steering  with  great  care,  as 
a  little  carelessness  here  may  mean  a 


THE  FLEDGLING  75 

wrecked  wing  or  a  turn  over),  and  press 
forward  the  cloche:  you  roll  easily  off; 
next  moment,  as  the  machine  gathers 
speed,  the  tail  rises,  and  you  pull  back 
the  stick  into  the  position  of  ligne  de  vol. 
Faster  and  faster  you  buzz  along,  — 
thirty,  thirty-five,  forty  miles  an  hour,  — 
until  you  have  flying  speed.  Then  a 
slight  backward  pull  on  the  cloche,  and 
you  are  in  the  air. 

I  made  my  first  flight  in  a  small  two- 
place  machine  of  the  fighting  type  — 
a  Nieuport.  It  is  a  new  sensation,  —  one 
which  only  a  handful  of  Americans  have 
experienced,  —  to  take  the  air  at  seventy- 
five  or  eighty  miles  an  hour,  in  one  of 
these  little  hornets.  The  handling  of  them 
is  incredibly  delicate,  all  the  movements 
of  the  stick  could  be  covered  by  a  three- 
inch  circle.  A  special  training  is  required 
to  pilot  them,  but  once  the  knack  is 
acquired  they  are  superb,  except  for  the 
necessity  of  landing  at  sixty  or  seventy 


76  THE  FLEDGLING 

miles  an  hour.  In  the  air  you  can  do 
anything  with  them  —  they  will  come 
out  of  any  known  evolution  or  position. 

Lately  I  have  been  making  short  low 
flights  in  a  Bleriot,  and  enjoying  it  keenly. 
All  I  know  (a  mere  beginning)  I  have 
learned  entirely  alone,  and  the  first  time 
I  left  the  ground,  I  left  it  alone.  They 
simply  put  you  in  the  successive  types  of 
machines,  with  a  brief  word  of  instruc- 
tion, and  tell  you  to  fly  —  if  you  have  n't 
the  instinct,  you  are  soon  put  out  of  the 
school.  After  your  month  of  preparation 
in  "Penguins"  and  "grass-cutters,"  the 
first  short  flight  is  a  great  experience. 

My  name  was  at  the  end  of  the  list, 
so  for  two  hours  of  increasing  tension 
I  watched  my  mates  make  their  debuts. 
We  were  about  a  dozen,  and  there  were 
some  bad  "crashes"  before  my  turn 
came.  At  last  the  monitor  called  me 
and  I  was  strapped  in  behind  the  whirl- 
ing stick.  The  monitor  waved  his  arm. 


THE  FLEDGLING  77 

the  men  holding  the  tail  jumped  away, 
and  I  opened  the  throttle  wide,  with 
the  manche-a-balai  pushed  all  the  way 
forward.  Up  came  the  tail;  I  eased  back 
the  control  bit  by  bit,  until  I  had  her  in 
ligne  de  vol,  tearing  down  the  field  at 
top  speed.  Now  came  the  big  moment, 
mentally  rehearsed  a  hundred  times.  With 
a  final  gulp  I  gingerly  pulled  back  the 
control,  half  an  inch,  an  inch,  an  inch  and  a 
half.  From  a  buoyant  bounding  rush  the 
machine  seemed  to  steady  to  a  glide,  sway- 
ing ever  so  little  from  side  to  side.  A 
second  later,  the  rushing  green  of  grass 
seemed  to  cease,  and  I  was  horrified  to 
find  myself  looking  down  at  the  land- 
scape from  a  vast  height  whence  one 
could  see  distant  fields  and  hangars  as 
if  on  a  map.  A  gentle  push  forward  on 
the  manche  brought  her  to  ligne  de  vol 
again ;  a  little  forward,  a  reduction  of  gas, 
a  pull  back  at  the  last  moment,  and  I 
had  made  my  first  landing  —  a  beauty. 


78  THE  FLEDGLING 

without  a  bounce.  To-night  I  may  crash, 
but  I  have  always  the  memory  of  my  be- 
ginner's luck  —  landing  faultlessly  from 
fully  twelve  feet ! 

Lack  of  sleep  is  our  main  foe  —  a 
hard  one  to  combat,  as  all  sorts  of  other 
things  develop  as  its  followers;  one  has 
simply  to  learn  to  sleep  in  any  odd  mo- 
ments of  the  day  or  night. 

I  may  still  "fall  down"  and  be  "radi- 
ated" to  an  observation  or  bombing 
plane  (which  is  of  course  no  disgrace); 
but  on  the  whole  I  have  good  hopes  of 
making  a  fighting  pilot.  Flying  (on  a 
Bleriot  monoplane)  is  by  no  means  as 
easy  as  I  had  supposed.  It  took  us  four 
weeks  to  learn  to  run  one  at  full  speed,  in  a 
straight  line,  on  the  ground.  The  steering 
and  handling  of  the  elevators  (which  regu- 
late height  of  tail)  are  extremely  tricky, 
and  many  men  are  thrown  out  or  sent  to 
other  schools  (Caudron,  Farman,  or  Voisin) 
for  inaptitude  or  "crashes"  at  this  stage. 


THE  FLEDGLING  79 

Then  comes  the  stage  of  low  straight- 
away flights,  when  you  leave  the  ground 
fast  and  in  correct  line  of  flight,  and 
have  to  land  smoothly.  Make  no  mis- 
take— ^  landing  any  kind  of  an  aero- 
plane is  hard,  and  to  land  the  fast  fighting 
machines  is  a  very  great  art,  which  forty 
per  cent  of  picked  young  men  never  ac- 
quire. They  are  so  heavy  for  their  sup- 
porting area,  that  the  moment  they  slow 
down  to  less  than  seventy-five  or  eighty 
miles  an  hour  they  simply  fall  off  on 
a  wing  (or  "pancake").  Even  a  Bleriot 
requires  a  good  eye  and  a  steady  delicate 
touch  and  judgment  to  land  in  decent 
style.  You  are  flying,  say,  three  hundred 
feet  up,  and  wish  to  land.  Forward  goes 
your  stick,  the  machine  noses  down  as 
you  cut  the  motor.  The  ground  comes 
rushing  up  at  you  until  the  moment 
comes  when  you  think  you  should  "re- 
dress"—  precisely  as  a  plunging  duck 
levels  before  settling  among  the  decoys. 


80  THE  FLEDGLING 

If  you  have  gauged  it  to  a  nicety,  you  skim 
over  the  ground  a  few  yards  up,  gradually 
losing  speed,  and  settling  at  last  without 
a  jar  or  break  in  the  forward  motion.  If 
you  redress  too  late,  you  turn  over 
(capoter),  or  else  bounce  and  fall  oflF  on 
a  wing.  (I  have  seen  men  bounce  fifty 
feet!)  If  you  redress  too  high,  you  lose 
speed  too  far  above  the  ground,  and 
either  pique  into  the  ground  and  turn 
over,  fall  flat,  or  crash  on  one  wing. 

The  secret  of  the  whole  game  of  learn- 
ing to  fly  is,  I  believe,  never  to  get  ex- 
cited. I  have  seen  beginner  after  beginner 
smash  when  he  was  first  sent  up  to  fly. 
They  run  along  the  ground,  pull  back 
the  stick,  as  told,  and  a  moment  later 
are  so  astounded  to  find  themselves 
twenty  or  thirty  feet  off  the  ground  that 
they  can  think  of  nothing  but  shutting 
off  the  throttle.  Many  crash  down  tail 
first,  with  controls  in  climbing  position 
to  the  last.  If  they  would  simply  think,  — 


THE  FLEDGLING  81 

"Ha,  old  boy,  you're  in  the  air  at 
last  —  some  thrill,  but  the  main  thing 
now  is  to  stay  here  a  bit  and  then  ease 
down  without  a  crash.  Ease  the  stick 
forward  —  now  we  have  stopped  climb- 
ing. Feel  that  puflF  —  she's  tipping,  but 
a  little  stick  or  rudder  will  stop  that. 
Now  pique  her  down,  and  reduce  the 
gas  a  notch  or  two.  Here  comes  the 
ground  —  straighten  her  out;  too  much, 
she's  climbing  again;  there,  cut  the  gas 
—  a  little  more  —  there  —  not  a  bad 
landing  for  the  first  try." 

Really  there  is  no  system  in  the  world 
like  learning  alone,  but  it  costs  the 
Government,  I  am  told,  from  ^30,000 
to  ^40,000  to  turn  out  a  fighting  pilot. 
Three,  six,  ten  machines  —  costly,  deli- 
cate things  —  are  smashed  daily  in  the 
school.  Never  a  word  is  said,  until  a  man 
smashes  one  too  many,  when  he  is  quietly 
sent  to  the  easier  double-command  school 
of  bombardment  or  observation  flying. 


82  THE  FLEDGLING 

Some  of  the  fellows  are  in  bad  shape 
nervously.  Any  night  in  our  barracks 
you  can  see  a  man,  sound  asleep,  sitting 
up  in  bed  with  hands  on  a  set  of  imaginary 
controls,  warding  off  puflFs,  doing  spirals, 
landings,  and  the  like.  It  is  odd  that  it 
should  take  such  a  hold  on  their  mental 
lives. 

I  enjoy  hugely  flying  the  old  mono- 
plane, especially  when  I  fly  home  and 
nose  her  down  almost  straight  for  a 
gorgeous  rush  at  the  ground.  As  you 
straighten  out,  a  few  yards  up,  lightly 
as  a  seagull,  and  settle  on  the  grass,  it 
is  a  real  thrill. 

I  have  purchased,  for  twenty-five 
francs,  a  beautiful  soft  Russia-leather 
head-and-shoulder  gear,  lined  with  splen- 
did silky  fur.  It  covers  everything  but 
one's  eyes,  —  leaving  a  crack  to  breathe 
through,  —  and  is  wonderfully  warm  and 
comfortable. 

I  have  finally  finished  the  Monoplane 


THE  FLEDGLING  8S 

School,  which  is  the  end  of  preliminary 
training.  There  remain  spirals,  etc.,  an 
altitude,  and  a  few  hundred  miles  of 
cross-country  flying,  before  I  can  obtain 
my  brevet  militaire  and  have  the  glory 
of  a  pair  of  small  gold  wings,  one  on  each 
side  of  my  collar.  After  that  I  shall  have 
seven  days'  leave  (if  I  am  lucky),  fol- 
lowed by  two  or  three  weeks  perfectionne- 
ment  on  the  type  of  machine  I  shall  fly 
at  the  front.  If  I  smash  nothing  from  now 
on,  I  shall  have  practically  my  choice  of 
"zincs"  —  a  monoplace  de  chasse,  or 
anything  in  the  bombing  or  observation 
lines.  If  I  break  once,  I  lose  my  chasse 
machine,  and  so  on,  down  to  the  most 
prosaic  type  of  heavy  bomber.  Only  one 
compensation  in  this  very  wise  but  severe 
system  —  the  worse  the  pilot,  the  safer 
the  machine  he  finally  flies. 

In  spite  of  all  my  hopes,  I  had  the 
inevitable  crash  —  and  in  the  very  last 
class  of  the  school.  Landing  our  Bleriots 


84  THE  FLEDGLING 

is  a  rather  delicate  matter  (especially  to 
a  beginner),  and  last  week  I  had  the  re- 
lapse in  landings  which  so  few  beginners 
escape,  with  the  result  that  I  crashed  on 
my  last  flight  of  the  morning.  I  felt 
pretty  low  about  it,  of  course,  but  on  the 
whole  I  was  not  sorry  for  the  experience, 
which  blew  up  a  lot  of  false  confidence 
and  substituted  therefor  a  new  respect 
for  my  job  and  a  renewed  keenness  to 
succeed.  After  that  I  did  better  than  ever 
before,  and  made  a  more  consistent  type 
of  landing. 

Guynemer,  the  great  French  "Ace," 
has  disappeared,  and  from  accounts  of 
the  fight  one  fears  that  he  is  dead.  What 
a  loss  to  France  and  to  the  Allies !  the  end 
of  a  career  of  unparalleled  romantic  bril- 
liancy. I  shall  never  forget  one  evening 
in  Paris  last  spring.  I  was  sitting  in  the 
Cafe  de  la  Paix,  under  the  long  awning 
that  fronts  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines. 


THE  FLEDGLING  85 

All  Paris  was  buzzing  with  Guynemer's 
mighty  exploit  of  the  day  before  —  four 
German  planes  in  one  fight,  two  of  them 
sent  hurtling  down  in  flames  within  sixty 
seconds.  It  took  one  back  to  the  old  days, 
and  one  foresaw  that  Guynemer  would 
take  his  place  with  the  legendary  heroes 
of  France,  with  Roland  and  Oliver,  Arch^ 
bishop  Turpin,  Saint  Louis,  and  Charles 
Martel. 

Presently  I  looked  up.  A  man  was 
standing  in  the  aisle  before  me  —  a 
slender  youth,  rather,  dressed  in  the 
black  and  silver  uniform  of  a  captain 
in  the  French  Aviation.  Delicately  built, 
of  middle  height,  with  dark  tired  eyes 
set  in  a  pale  face,  he  had  the  look  of 
a  haggard  boy  who  had  crowded  the 
experience  of  a  lifetime  into  a  score 
of  years.  The  mouth  was  remarkable 
in  so  young  a  man  —  mobile  and  thin- 
lipped,  expressing  dauntless  resolution. 
On  his  breast  the  particolored  ribbons 


86  THE  FLEDGLING 

of  his  decorations  formed  three  lines: 
Croix  de  Guerre,  Medaille  Militaire, 
Officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  Cross 
of  St.  George,  EngHsh  MiHtary  Cross, 
and  others  too  rare  for  recognition. 

All  about  me  there  arose  a  murmur 
of  excited  interest;  chairs  were  pushed 
back  and  tables  moved  as  the  crowd 
rose  to  its  feet.  Cynical  Swiss  waiters, 
with  armloads  of  pink  and  green  drinks, 
halted  agape.  A  whisper,  collective  and 
distinct,  passed  along  the  terrace:  "It  is 
Guynemer!" 

The  day  before,  over  the  fiery  lines, 
he  had  done  battle  for  his  life;  and  this 
evening,  in  the  gay  security  of  Paris,  he 
received  the  homage  of  the  people  who 
adored  him. 

He  had  been  looking  for  a  table,  but 
when  it  became  no  longer  possible  to 
ignore  the  stir,  he  raised  his  right  hand 
in  embarrassed  salute  and  walked  quickly 
into  the  cafe. 


THE  FLEDGLING  87 

I  spent  my  ten  days'  leave  in  a  trip 
to  Nice,  and  used  up  about  half  of  it  in 
getting  there. 

The  trip  south  was  a  martyrdom  — 
a  long  stifling  ride  to  Paris,  three  days' 
wait  there  for  a  reserved  place  to  Mar- 
seilles, a  day  and  a  night  standing  up 
in  a  corridor  from  Paris  to  Marseilles 
(had  to  give  up  my  seat  to  an  unfortu- 
nate woman  with  two  youngsters),  and 
twenty-three  hours  more  in  a  corridor 
to  get  to  Cannes.  On  the  whole,  the 
worst  journey  I  recollect.  No  stops  for 
meals,  so  we  all  nearly  starved,  till  I 
finally  obtained  an  armful  of  bottled  beer 
and  some  sandwiches. 

I  sat  down  on  a  trunk  in  the  corridor 
and  nodded  off  to  sleep,  only  to  be  awak- 
ened half  an  hour  later  by  H F 

(S 's  cousin),  who  stole  up  with  a 

gesture  for  silence,  and  pointed  at  me 
with  a  shake  of  his  head  and  a  broad  grin. 
It  must  have  been  rather  a  rakish  tab- 


88  THE  FLEDGLING 

leau.  On  the  floor  to  my  left  were  half  a 
dozen  empty  bottles;  on  one  end  of  the 
trunk  I  sat,  heavy-eyed  and  half  awake, 
and  beside  me,  somid  asleep,  with  her  head 
on  my  shoulder,  was  a  respectable,  very 
attractive,  and  utterly  unknown  young 

woman !  C'est  la  guerre !  I  motioned  H 

away  and  promptly  went  to  sleep  again. 

In  Marseilles  I  had  time  for  the 
Corniche,  to  see  Monte  Cristo's  castle, 
and  eat  a  bouillabaisse,  which  I  cannot 
recommend  without  reserve.  With  an 
enormous  floating  population  of  sailors, 
shipping  booming,  and  streets  ablaze  at 
night,  Marseilles  seems  far  away  from 
the  war,  after  the  hushed  gloom  of  noc- 
turnal Paris. 

The  trials  for  my  military  brevet  were 
by  far  the  most  interesting  thing  I  have 
done  in  aviation.  On  finishing  the  sixty 
horse-power  Bleriot  class,  I  was  told  that 
I  would  have  to  do  my  brevet  work  on 
a  small  Caudron  biplane,  as  there  were 


THE  FLEDGLING  89 

no  Bleriots  available.  A  few  short  flights 
in  the  Caudron  gave  me  confidence  that 
I  could  handle  it;  so  one  rather  cloudy 
morning  the  officer  told  me  to  make  my 
official  altitude  —  which  is  merely  one 
hour's  stay  at  heights  of  over  seven 
thousand  feet.  I  pulled  on  my  great  fur 
combination  and  fur-lined  boots,  adjusted 
mittens,  helmet,  and  goggles,  and  stepped 
into  my  machine,  number  2887,  which  the 
mechanic  had  been  tuning  up.  "Coupe, 
plein  gaz,"  he  shouted,  above  the  roar 
of  a  score  of  motors,  and  gave  the  stick 
half  a  dozen  turns.  Then,  "Contact  re- 
duit";  and  as  I  yelled  back,  "Contact 
reduit,"  after  the  old  starting  formula, 
he  gave  a  quick  half  turn  to  the  blades. 
Off  she  went  with  a  roar,  all  ten  cylinders 
hitting  perfectly,  so  I  motioned  him  to 
pull  out  the  blocks  from  before  the  wheels. 
A  quick  rush  and  a  turn  headed  me  into 
the  wind,  and  the  next  moment  the 
starter's  arm  shot  forward. 


90  THE  FLEDGLING 

Old  2887  is  a  bully  'bus.  I  was  oflF  thq 
ground  and  heading  up  in  forty  yards. 
It  was  rather  an  occasion  for  a  beginner 
who  had  never  before  flown  over  twenty- 
five  hundred  feet.  The  little  Caudrons, 
of  course,  are  not  high-powered,  but  she 
climbed  splendidly.  In  ten  minutes  I 
was  circling  over  the  camp  at  thirty- 
eight  hundred  feet,  and  in  twenty,  I  had 
reached  six  thousand,  just  under  the  roof 
of  the  clouds.  There  was  only  one  blue 
hole  through,  so  up  this  funnel  I  climbed 
in  decreasing  circles,  till  I  finally  burst 
out  into  the  gorgeous  upper  sunlight.  At 
eight  thousand  feet  I  began  to  float  about 
in  a  world  of  utter  celestial  loneliness  — 
dazzlingly  pure  sun,  air  like  the  water  of 
a  coral  atoll,  and  beneath  me  a  billowy 
sea  of  clouds,  stretching  away  to  infinity. 
Here  and  there,  from  the  cloudy  prairies, 
great  fantastic  mountain  ranges  reared 
themselves;  foothills  and  long  divides, 
vast  snowy  peaks,  impalpable  sisters  of 


THE  FLEDGLING  91 

Orizaba  or  Chimborazo,  and  deep  gorges, 
ever  narrowing,  widening,  or  deepening, 
across  whose  shadowy  depths  drove  rib- 
bons of  thin  gray  mist. 

Once,  as  I  was  sailing  over  a  broad 
canon,  I  saw,  far  off  in  the  south,  a  dark 
moving  dot,  and  knew  with  a  sudden 
thrill  that  another  man  like  myself, 
astride  his  gaunt  buzzing  bird,  was  ex- 
ploring and  marveling  at  this  upper 
dream-world. 

At  last  the  hour  was  up.  I  shut  off  the 
motor  and  drove  downward  in  a  series 
of  long  easy  glides.  Going  through  the 
clouds,  one  loses  all  sense  of  balance  and 
direction.  It  is  tfizarre  and  sometimes 
dangerous.  You  plunge  out  into  the  old 
gray  world  beneath,  to  find  yourself  in  a 
nose-dive,  or  off  on  a  wing,  or  upside 
down  —  it  is  all  the  same  in  a  cloud. 

The  balance  of  the  military  trials 
consists  in  spirals,  and  so  forth,  and  a 
lot  of  cross-country  flying  by  map  and 


92  THE  FLEDGLING 

compass.  First  you  make  two  round 
trips  to  a  place  fifty  miles  away,  and 
then  two  triangular  trips  of  about  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  each.  It  is  very 
easy,  if  you  keep  your  wits  about  you 
and  have  no  hard  luck.  Roads,  railroads, 
rivers,  woods,  and  canals  are  the  principal 
guides  to  follow;  towns  and  cities  you 
can  only  recognize  by  having  counted 
their  predecessors,  unless  there  is  some 
very  prominent  building,  cathedral  or 
factory.  A  road,  from  three  thousand 
feet,  shows  as  a  very  straight  white  line, 
occasionally  making  angular  turns.  A 
railroad  is  a  dark  gray  line,  always  curv- 
ing gently  when  it  turns.  Canals  are 
ribbons  of  water,  very  straight,  between 
twin  lines  of  trees.  And  so  on.  You  watch 
your  compass,  to  check  up  the  tend  of 
roads  and  railroads,  watch  your  altimeter 
and  tachometer  (which  tells  the  speed  of 
your  engine),  and  above  all  watch  always 
ahead  for  suitable  landing  fields,  in  case 


THE  FLEDGLING  93 

of  motor  trouble.  The  wind  also  must  be 
borne  in  mind;  its  direction  can  be  told 
from  smoke.  I  was  lucky  and  had  no 
trouble  at  all. 

At  Nice  I  ran  into  many  Americans, 
and  there  were  a  good  many  Britishers 
about,  recovering  from  the  recent  se- 
vere fighting  around  Passchendaele.  They 
are  a  quiet  and  agreeable  lot  —  very  in- 
teresting when  they  talk  about  their 
work,  which  is  seldom. 

One  captain  had  strolled  into  some 
heavy  fighting  with  no  weapon  but  a 
heavy  cane,  and  with  this,  walking  astride 
of  a  deep  narrow  enemy  trench,  he  had 
killed  eight  Germans !  An  Australian  cap- 
tain, with  the  rare  ribbon  of  the  V.C.  on 
his  breast,  had  gone  into  a  crowded  Ger- 
man dugout  with  one  companion,  who 
was  wounded  at  the  first  exchange  of 
bombs.  Single-handed,  he  had  bombed 
out  the  Boches,  taken  forty  prisoners  back 
single-handed,  and  returned  to  bring  out 
his  wounded  brother  officer.  An  epic  feat! 


Ill 

FULL-FLEDGED 

Soon  after  my  stay  at  Nice  I  went  for  a 
month  to  the  Combat  and  Acrobatic 
School  of  Pau,  which  completes  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  the  flying  training.  A 
wonderful  experience  —  somersaults,  bar- 
rel-turns, corkscrew  dives,  every  con- 
ceivable aerial  caper,  and  long  flights 
daily:  skimming  the  highest  peaks  of  the 
Pyrenees  at  three  hundred  feet  above 
the  snow  —  trips  to  Biarritz  and  along 
the  coast,  flying  ten  feet  above  the  waves, 
etc. 

It  is  hard  to  say  enough  in  praise  of 
the  school  at  Pau  —  the  hundreds  of 
splendid  machines,  the  perfect  discipline 
and  efiiciency,  the  food,  the  barracks, 
the  courteous  treatment  of  pilots  by 
oJBScers  and  instructors.  We  were  twenty 


FULL-FLEDGED  95 

Americans,  in  a  clean  airy  barrack,  with 
an  Annamite  to  make  the  beds  and  sweep 
up.  The  school  covers  an  enormous  area 
in  the  valley  of  the  Gave,  just  under  the 
Pyrenees,  and  is  ideal  for  an  aviation 
center  so  far  as  weather  conditions  go, 
its  one  drawback  being  that  motor- 
trouble,  out  of  range  of  the  aerodromes, 
means  almost  inevitably  a  smash.  All 
along  the  Gave  they  have  the  smallest 
fields  and  the  highest  hedges  I  ever  saw. 
The  climate  is  superb  —  like  the  foothill 
climate  of  California:  cool  nights,  deli- 
cious days,  wonderful  dawns  and  sunsets. 

They  started  us  on  the  eighteen-metre 
machine,  doing  vertical  spirals,  which  are 
quite  a  thrill  at  first.  You  go  to  a  height 
of  about  three  thousand  feet,  shut  off  the 
motor,  tilt  the  machine  till  the  wings  are 
absolutely  vertical,  and  pull  the  stick  all 
the  way  back.  When  an  aeroplane  in- 
clines laterally  to  over  forty-five  degrees, 
the  controls  become  reversed — the  rudder 


96  THE  FLEDGLING 

is  then  the  elevator,  and  the  elevator  the 
rudder,  so  that,  in  a  vertical  spiral,  the 
farther  back  you  pull  the  stick,  the  tighter 
the  spiral  becomes.  You  are  at  the  same 
time  dropping  and  whirling  in  short 
circles.  I  once  did  five  turns  in  losing  a 
thousand  feet  of  altitude  —  an  unusual 
number,  the  monitor  told  me  with  satis- 
faction. Usually,  one  loses  about  three 
hundred  feet  to  each  turn,  but  on  my  first 
attempt,  I  lost  twenty-one  hundred  feet 
in  three  fourths  of  a  turn,  because  I  did 
not  pull  back  enough  on  the  stick. 

After  the  eighteen-metre  spirals  we 
were  given  a  few  rides  on  the  fifteen- 
metre  machine  —  very  small,  fast  and 
powerful,  but  a  delicious  thing  to  handle 
in  the  air;  and  after  left  and  right  verti- 
cal spirals  on  this  type,  we  went  to  the 
class  of  formation-flying,  where  one  is 
supposed  to  learn  flying  in  squadron 
formation,  like  wild  geese.  This  is  ex- 
tremely  valuable,   but   most  men   take 


FULL-FLEDGED  97 

this  chance  for  joy-riding,  as  they  have 
petrol  for  three  hours,  and  are  responsible 
to  no  one. 

On  my  first  day  in  this  class  I  found 
no  one  at  the  rendezvous,  so  I  rose  to 
about  four  thousand  feet,  and  headed  at 
a  hundred  miles  an  hour  for  the  coast.  In 
thirty-five  minutes  I  was  over  Biarritz, 
where  my  eyes  fairly  feasted  on  the  salt 
water,  sparkling  blue,  and  foam-crested. 
I  do  not  see  how  men  can  live  long  away 
from  the  sea  and  the  mountains.  My 
motor  was  running  like  a  clock  and  as  I 
was  beginning  to  have  perfect  confidence 
in  its  performance,  I  came  down  in  a  long 
coast  to  the  ground,  and  went  rushing 
across  country  toward  the  mountains, 
skimming  a  yard  up,  across  pastures, 
leaping  vertically  over  high  hedges  of 
poplar  trees,  booming  down  the  main 
streets  of  villages,  and  behaving  like  an 
idiot  generally,  from  sheer  intoxication 
of  limitless  speed  and  power. 


98  THE  FLEDGLING 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  at  the  en- 
trance of  one  of  the  huge  gorges  that 
pierce  the  Pyrenees  —  the  sort  of  place 
up  which  the  hosts  of  Charlemagne  were 
guided  by  the  White  Stag:  deep  and 
black  and  winding,  with  an  icy  stream 
rushing  down  its  depths.  Why  not?  I 
gave  her  full  gas  and  whizzed  up  between 
black  walls  of  rock  that  magnified  enor- 
mously the  motor's  snarl,  up  and  up 
until  there  was  snow  beneath  me  and 
ahead  I  could  see  the  sun  gleaming  on 
the  gorgeous  ragged  peaks.  Up  and  up, 
nine,  ten,  eleven  thousand  feet,  and  I 
was  skimming  the  highest  ridges  that 
separate  France  and  Spain.  Imagine  ris- 
ing from  a  field  in  Los  Angeles,  and 
twenty-five  minutes  later  flying  over  the 
two-mile-high  ridges  of  Baldy  and  Sheep 
Mountain,  swooping  down  to  graze  the 
snow,  or  bounding  into  the  air  with 
more  speed  and  ease  than  any  bird. 

At  last,  as  my  time  was  nearly  up,  I 


FULL-FLEDGED  99 

headed  back  for  Pau.  A  few  minutes 
later,  just  as  I  sighted  the  pygmy  groups 
of  hangars,  my  motor  gave  forth  a  loud 
bang  and  a  sheet  of  flame,  and  several 
chunks  of  metal  tore  whizzing  through 
the  aluminum  hood.  Automatically,  I 
pulled  at  the  lever  which  closes  the  gaso- 
line flow  and  tilted  the  machine  forward 
to  keep  my  speed.  Another  bang,  accom- 
panied by  black  smoke.  "Holy  mackerel!" 
I  thought;  "this  is  the  end  of  me!  Let's 
see  —  in  case  of  fire,  shut  off  petrol,  open 
throttle,  and  leave  the  spark  on.  Then  go 
into  a  nose-dive." 

Somehow  you  can't  seem  to  get  very 
excited  at  such  moments,  —  everything 
seems  inevitable,  —  good  or  bad  luck. 
I  nose-dived,  came  out  at  five  thousand 
feet,  killed  my  propeller,  and  was  grati- 
fied to  see,  on  looking  behind,  that  there 
was  no  more  smoke.  Starting  the  motor 
was  of  course  out  of  the  question,  as  it 
would  have  promptly  taken  fire;  so  I  shut 


100  THE  FLEDGLING 

off  throttle  and  spark,  struck  an  easy  glide, 
and  began  an  anxious  search  for  a  field. 
Most  of  them  were  no  larger  than  postage- 
stamps,  and  I  knew  they  were  hedged  by 
the  beastly  poplars,  but  at  last  I  spotted 
a  long  one,  in  the  direction  of  the  wind, 
though  not  long  enough  to  afford  more 
than  a  bare  chance  of  avoiding  a  crash. 
It  was  the  only  hope,  at  any  rate;  so 
down  I  coasted  in  glides  and  serpentines, 
jockeying  to  lose  height  just  over  the 
trees.  As  luck  would  have  it,  I  was  a  few 
feet  low  and  had  to  chance  jumping  the 
trees  with  none  too  much  speed.  The 
splendid  stability  of  the  Nieuport  saved 
me  from  a  wing-slip,  and  a  moment  later 
I  landed  with  a  bang  in  a  ditch,  break- 
ing one  wheel  and  stopping  within  ten 
yards  of  a  formidable  line  of  willows. 

I  crawled  out  of  my  seat  and  lay  down 
in  the  long  grass  to  rest,  as  my  head 
ached  villainously  from  the  too  rapid 
descent.  Somehow  I  dozed  off  and  was 


FULL-FLEDGED  lOl 

awakened  by  the  friendly  tongue  of  a 
huge  Basque  shepherd  dog.  His  mistress, 
a  pretty  Spanish-speaking  peasant  girl, 
appeared  a  minute  later,  and  her  family 
were  very  decent  to  me.  After  some  hot 
coffee  with  brandy,  and  a  piece  of  goat 
cheese,  I  attended  to  the  formalities  and 
went  back  to  camp. 

After  formation-flying  we  went  to  the 
acrobatic  class  or  "  Haute  Ecole  du  Ciel," 
where  you  are  taught  to  put  a  machine 
through  the  wildest  kinds  of  maneuvers. 
This  is  the  most  dangerous  class  in  any 
aviation  training  in  France  —  many  ex- 
cellent pilots,  whose  nerves  or  stomachs 
would  not  stand  the  acrobatics,  rest  in 
the  little  cemetery  at  Pau.  Wonderful 
sport,  though,  if  nature  intended  one  for 
that  sort  of  thing!  The  most  dreaded 
thing  one  does  is  the  spinning  nose-dive, 
or  vrille  (gimlet),  which  formerly  was 
thought  invariably  fatal.  They  have  now 


162^  THE  FLEDGLING 

discovered  that  the  small,  very  strong 
machines  will  come  out  of  it  safely,  if  the 
rudder  is  put  exactly  in  the  middle  and 
the  stick  pushed  forward. 

The  instructor  in  this  class  was  a 
very  dandified  lieutenant,  in  a  Bond 
Street  uniform,  and  wearing  a  monocle, 
who  lay  in  a  steamer-chair  all  day,  gazing 
up  into  the  sky  at  the  antics  of  his  pupils. 
Around  him  stood  assistants  with  field- 
glasses,  who  watched  the  heavens  anx- 
iously, and  would  suddenly  bark  out, 
' '  Regardez,  mon  lieutenant  —  1 ' Ameri- 
cain  Thompson  en  vrille."  The  lieutenant 
would  then  languidly  look  up  at  the 
machine  pointed  out  (they  are  distin- 
guished by  broad  stripes,  or  checker- 
boards, or  colors),  and,  if  the  "type"  up 
above  had  done  well,  would  remark, 
"Pas  mal,  celui-la."  If  some  unfortunate 
plunged  into  the  ground  and  killed  him- 
self, the  officer  would  rise  gracefully  from 
his  chair,  flick  the  dust  from  his  sleeve. 


FULL-FLEDGED  103 

and  call  for  the  "Black  Cat,"  his  special 
"taxi."  Jumping  in  with  remarkable 
speed,  he  rose  in  a  series  of  the  most 
breakneck  evolutions,  and  jflew  to  the 
scene  of  the  accident.  In  reality,  his  pose 
is  the  best  in  the  world,  as  it  keeps  the 
pilots  gonfles,  that  is,  courageous  and 
confident,  as  opposed  to  degonfles,  or 
scared  and  nervous. 

I  was  watching  all  this  from  the 
ground,  when  a  monitor  unexpectedly 
called  out,  "Nordhoff,  NordhofI!" 

"Present!"  I  yelled,  as  I  ran  toward 
him. 

"You  will  take  the  checker-board," 
he  ordered,  "rise  to  twelve  hundred  me- 
tres, and  do  one  vrille  and  two  upside- 
down  turns." 

I  admit  that  I  had  a  slight  sinking 
spell  as  I  walked  to  the  machine,  a  little 
thirteen-metre  beauty.  (Think  of  it,  only 
thirteen  square  yards  of  supporting  sur- 
face!) It  was  all  right  as  soon  as  I  was 


104  THE  FLEDGLING' 

strapped  in  and  had  the  motor  going.  Up 
we  went,  the  "Bebe"  climbing  like  a  cat, 
at  incredible  speed,  while  I  anxiously  re- 
peated, again  and  again,  the  instructions. 
Two  turns  of  the  field  gave  me  my  thirty- 
six  hundred  feet.  This  was  no  time  to 
hesitate,  so,  as  I  reached  the  required 
spot,  away  from  the  sun,  I  shut  off  the 
motor,  took  a  long  breath,  and  pulled 
back  a  bit  on  the  stick.  Slower  and  slower 
she  went,  until  I  felt  the  rather  sickening 
swaying  that  comes  with  a  dangerous  loss 
of  speed.  The  moment  had  come.  Gritting 
my  teeth,  I  gave  her  all  the  left  rudder 
and  left  stick,  at  the  same  moment  pull- 
ing the  stick  all  the  way  back.  For  an 
instant  she  seemed  to  hang  motionless  — 
then  with  unbelievable  swiftness  plunged 
whirling  downwards.  "Remember,  keep 
your  eyes  inside  —  don't  look  out,  what- 
ever happens,"  I  thought,  while  a  great 
wind  tore  at  my  clothing  and  whistled 
through  the  wires.  In  a  wink  of  time  I 


FULL-FLEDGED  105 

had  dropped  six  hundred  feet:  so  I  care- 
fully put  the  rudder  in  the  exact  center, 
centered  the  stick,  and  pushed  it  gently- 
forward.  At  once  the  motion  grew  stead- 
ier, the  wind  seemed  to  abate,  and  the 
next  moment  I  dared  to  look  out.  It  was 
over  —  I  was  in  a  steep  glide,  right  side 
up,  safe  and  sound.  I  had  done  a  vrille 
and  come  out  of  it!  A  gorgeous  sensation! 
I  loved  it,  and  queerly  enough  my  first 

bewildered  thought  was,  ''M would 

adore  that!" 

Just  to  show  the  lieutenant  that  I  was 
having  a  good  time,  I  buzzed  up  again 
and  did  two  more  vrilles,  looking  out 
the  whole  time  at  the  panorama  of 
Pyrenees,  villages,  and  river,  whirling 
around  with  the  most  amazing  rapidity. 
Not  a  thing  for  bilious  or  easily  dizzy 
people  though,  as  it  means  horses  at  the 
walk  if  you  fail  to  do  the  right  thing  at 
exactly  the  right  moment. 

After  the  acrobatics,  we  went  to  classes 


106  THE  FLEDGLING 

in  machine-gun  shooting  and  combat- 
flying —  very  interesting  and  practical, 
but  not  to  be  talked  about. 

After  Pau,  I  had  forty-eight  hours' 
leave  in  Paris,  bought  a  few  things  I 
needed  for  the  front,  and  was  then  sent 
to  a  place  it  is  forbidden  to  mention, 
expecting  soon  to  get  to  flying  over  the 
lines. 

On  New  Year's  morning,  as  it  was 
snowing  hard  and  there  was  no  flying, 
I  sat  by  a  cozy  fire,  in  the  house  of  some 
English  people.  Curious  thing,  running 
into  them  here.  They  are  of  the  tribe  of 
English  who  wander  over  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  make  England  what  she  is. 

The  man  of  the  house  is  an  expert  on , 

and  has  pursued  his  unusual  vocation  in 
Cuba,  Jamaica,  Honduras,  Guiana,  "Por- 
tuguese East"  and  other  parts  of  Africa, 
as  well  as  in  Ceylon  and  a  few  other 
places  I  forget.  Here  he  is  now,  as  ex- 


FULL-FLEDGED  107 

pert  for  the  French.  His  wife  and  seven 
children,  who  speak  French,  Portuguese, 
Spanish,  and  Zulu,  I  think,  follow  him 
everywhere,  and  are  everywhere  equally 
at  home.  I  have  tea  with  them  after  work, 
and,  needless  to  say,  they  are  a  Godsend 
in  this  desolate  place.  Let  us  all  pray  that 
next  New  Year's  day  we  shall  be  thanking 
God  for  a  victorious  peace  and  returning 
to  civilian  life,  never  to  put  on  uniforms 
again.  The  finest  uniform  of  all  is  the 
old  civilian  suit  —  brass  buttons  and  gold 
braid  to  the  contrary. 

For  this  winter  air-work,  which  is  the 
coldest  known  occupation,  I  think,  this 
is  the  way  we  dress.  First,  heavy  flannels 
and  woolen  socks.  Over  that,  a  flannel 
shirt  with  sleeveless  sweater  on  top,  and 
uniform  breeches  and  tunic.  Boots  and 
spiral  puttees  (very  warm  things,  if  not 
put  on  too  tightly)  go  on  next,  and  over 
all  we  pull  on  a  great  combination,  or 
fur-lined  "teddy-bear"  suit — waterproof 


108  THE  FLEDGLING 

canvas  outside.  Over  our  boots  we  pull 
fur-lined  leather  flying  boots,  reaching 
half-way  up  to  our  knees.  For  head-gear, 
a  fur-lined  leather  cap,  and  around  the 
neck,  several  turns  of  gray  muflSer.  A 
variety  of  mask  and  a  pair  of  "triplex" 
goggles  to  protect  one 's  face  from  the  icy 
breeze.  With  all  this,  and  heavy  fur 
gloves,  one  can  keep  reasonably  warm. 

As  the  16th  of  January  was  the  first 
good  flying  day  for  some  time,  there  was 
much  activity.  After  lunch  I  went  to  the 
aerodrome  just  in  time  to  see  the  combat 
patrol  come  swooping  down.  An  excited 
crowd  was  gathered  about  the  first  ma- 
chine in,  and  I  learned  that  one  of  our 
best  pilots  had  just  been  brought  down 

by  a  German  two-seater,  and  that  H , 

a  nineteen-year-old  American  in  our  sister 
escadrille  here,  had  promptly  brought  the 
Hun  down.  I  was  proud  to  think  that 
an  American  had  revenged  our  comrade. 
This    makes    H 's    second    German 


FULL-FLEDGED  109 

within  a  week  —  a  phenomenal  record 
for  a  beginner.  He  is  an  unusual  young- 
ster, and  handles  a  machine  beautifully. 
He  seems  to  have  the  mixture  of  dash, 
cold  nerve,  and  caution  which  makes  an 
"ace." 

The  German  fell  ten  thousand  feet 
directly  over  the  trenches,  but  at  the  last 
moment  managed  to  straighten  out  a  bit 
and  crashed  two  hundred  yards  inside  his 

lines.    H followed   him   down,   and 

gliding  over  the  trenches  at  one  hundred  ^ 
feet,  saw  one  German  limp  out  of  the 
wreck  and  wave  a  hand  up  at  the  victor. 

Another  American  boy  had  quite  an 
exciting  time  lately  when  his  motor 
went  dead  far  inside  the  enemy  lines. 
Luckily  he  was  high  at  the  time;  so  he 
flattened  his  glide  to  the  danger-point, 
praying  to  be  able  to  cross  into  friendly 
country.  Down  he  came,  his  "stick" 
dead,  the  wind  whistling  through  the 
cables,  until  close  ahead  he  saw  a  broad 


110  THE  FLEDGLING 

belt  of  shell-marked  desolation,  criss- 
crossed by  a  maze  of  meaningless  trenches. 
The  gromid  was  close;  automatically  he 
straightened  out,  avoiding  a  pair  of  huge 
craters,  touched,  bumped,  crashed  into  a 
thicket  of  wire,  and  turned  over.  A  jab 
at  the  catch  of  his  belt  set  him  free;  but 
the  really  important  thing  was  whether 
or  not  he  had  succeeded  in  crossing  the 
German  lines.  Wisely  enough,  he  crawled 
to  a  shell-hole,  and  from  its  shelter  began 
to  reconnoiter  warily.  Muddy  figures  be- 
gan to  appear  from  various  holes  and 
ditches,  and  at  length  a  soldier  who,  so 
far  as  appearances  went,  might  have 
belonged  to  any  army,  leaned  over  the 
edge  of  the  hole  and  said  something  in 

French,  Young  S at  that  began  to 

breathe  for  the  first  time  in  at  least  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  His  discoverer  led 
him  to  a  spacious  dugout  where  two 
generals  were  at  limch  —  a  wonderful 
lunch,  washed  down  with  beverages  for- 


FULL-FLEDGED  111 

bidden  to  any  but  generals.  The  great 
ones  made  the  corporal  welcome,  laughed 
themselves  ill  over  his  voluble  but  won- 
derful French,  plied  him  with  food  and 
good  Scotch  whiskey,  and  sent  him  home 
in  one  of  their  superb  closed  cars. 

Now  that  so  many  young  Americans 
are  beginning  to  fly  in  France,  I  fancy 
that  the  people  at  home  must  wonder 
what  sort  of  a  time  their  sons  or  brothers 
are  having  —  how  they  live,  what  their 
work  is,  and  their  play.  Most  people  who 
have  an  immediate  interest  in  the  war 
must  by  now  possess  a  very  fair  idea  of 
the  military  aviation  training;  but  of  the 
pilot's  life  at  the  front  I  have  seen  little  in 
print. 

I  can  speak,  of  course,  only  of  con- 
ditions in  the  French  aviation  service; 
but  when  our  American  squadrons  take 
their  places  at  the  front,  the  life  is  bound 
to  be  very  similar,  because  experience 


112  THE  FLEDGLING 

has  taught  all  the  armies  that,  to  get  the 
best  results,  pilots  should  be  given  a 
maximum  of  liberty  and  a  minimum  of 
routine,  outside  of  their  duty,  which  con- 
sists in  but  one  thing  —  flying. 

Let  us  suppose,  for  example,  that  an 
American  boy  —  we  will  call  him  Wilkins, 
because  I  never  heard  of  a  man  named 
Wilkins  flying  —  has  passed  through  the 
schools,  done  his  acrobatics  and  combat- 
work,  and  is  waiting  at  the  great  depot 
near  Paris  for  his  call  to  the  front.  Every 
day  he  scans  the  list  as  it  is  posted,  and 
at  last,  hurrah!  his  name  is  there,  fol- 
lowed by  mysterious  letters  and  numbers 
—  G.C.  17,  or  S.P.A.  501,  or  N.  358.  He 
knows,  of  course,  that  he  will  have  a  sin- 
gle-seater scout,  but  the  symbols  above 
tell  him  whether  it  will  be  a  Spad  or  a 
Nieuport  and  whether  he  is  to  be  in  a 
groupe  de  combat  ("traveling  circus," 
the  British  call  them)  or  in  a  permanent 
fighting  unit. 


FULL-FLEDGED  113 

Wilkins  is  overjoyed  to  jSnd  he  has 
been  given  a  Spad,  and  hastens  to  pack 
up,  in  readiness  for  his  train,  which 
leaves  at  6  p.m.  When  his  order  of  trans- 
port is  given  him,  he  finds  that  his  es- 
cadrille  is  stationed  at  Robinet  d'Essence, 
in  a  fairly  quiet,  though  imaginary, 
sector.  Before  leaving  the  dep6t  he  has 
issued  to  him  a  fur-lined  teddy-bear  suit, 
fur  boots,  sweater,  fur  gloves,  and  a  huge 
cork  safety  helmet,  which  Wisdom  tells 
him  to  wear  and  Common  Sense  pro- 
nounces impossible.  Common  Sense  wins; 
so  Wilkins  gives  the  thing  to  the  keeper 
of  the  "eflFets  chauds  pour  pilotes,"  and 
retires. 

His  flying  things  stuffed  into  a  duffle- 
bag,  which  he  has  checked  directly  through 
to  far-off  Robinet,  our  hero  boards  the 
train  with  nothing  but  a  light  suitcase. 
He  is  delirious  with  joy,  for  it  is  long 
since  he  has  been  to  Paris,  and  at  the 
dep6t   discipline    has    been    severe    and 


114  THE  FLEDGLING 

luxury  scant.  Every  journey  to  the  front 
is  via  Paris,  and  the  authorities  wink  a 
wise  and  kindly  eye  at  a  few  hours'  stop- 
over. Outside  the  station,  an  hour  later, 
Wilkins  is  conscious  of  a  sudden  odd  feel- 
ing of  calm,  almost  of  content,  which  puz- 
zles him  until  he  thinks  a  bit.  Finally  he 
has  it  —  this  is  what  he  is  going  to  fight 
for,  what  all  the  Allies  are  fighting  for:  this 
pleasant,  crowded  civilian  life;  the  dainty 
Frenchwomen  going  by  on  the  arms  of 
their  permissionnaires,  the  fine  old  build- 
ings, the  hum  of  peaceful  pursuits.  In  the 
schools  and  at  the  waiting  depot  he  had 
nearly  lost  sight  of  real  issues;  but  now 
it  all  comes  back. 

At  his  hotel  he  calls  up  Captain  X 

of  the  American  Aviation,  —  an  old 
friend,  who  is  in  Paris  on  duty,  —  and 
is  lucky  enough  to  catch  him  at  his 
apartment.  They  dine  at  the  Cercle 
des  Allies  —  the  old  Rothschild  palace, 
now  made  into  a  great  military  club. 


FULL-FLEDGED  115 

where  one  can  see  many  interesting 
men  of  all  the  Allied  armies  limching 
and  dining  together.  Dinner  over,  they 
drop  in  at  the  Olympia,  watch  the  show 
a  bit,  and  greet  a  multitude  of  friends 
who  stroll  about  among  the  tables.  A 

great  deal  of  air-gossip  goes  on:  A 

has  just  bagged  another  Boche;  B , 

poor  chap,  was  shot  down  two  days  ago; 

C is  a  prisoner,  badly  wounded.  At 

a  table  near  by,  Wilkins,  for  the  first 
time,  sets  eyes  on  Lufbery,  the  famous 
American  "ace,"  his  breast  a  mass  of 
ribbons,  his  rather  worn  face  lit  up  by  a 
pleasant  smile  as  he  talks  to  a  French 
oJEBcer  beside  him. 

At  eleven  our  young  pilot  says  good- 
bye to  his  friend  and  walks  through  the 
darkened  streets  to  his  hotel.  What  a 
joy,  to  sleep  in  a  real  bed  again!  The 
train  leaves  at  noon,  which  will  give 
him  time  for  a  late  breakfast  and  a  little 
shopping  in  the  morning.  After  the  first 


116  THE  FLEDGLING 

real  night's  sleep  in  a  month,  and  a  light 
war-time  breakfast  of  omelet,  bacon, 
broiled  kidneys,  and  coffee,  he  is  on  the 
boulevards  again,  searching  for  a  really- 
good  pair  of  goggles,  a  fur-lined  flying 
cap  to  replace  the  hopeless  helmet,  and 
a  pair  of  heavy  mittens.  Old  friends,  in 
the  uniforms  of  American  subalterns,  are 
everywhere;  many  wear  the  stiff -looking 
wings  of  the  American  Flying  Corps  on 
their  breasts.  All  are  filled  with  envy  to 
hear  that  he  is  leaving  for  the  front;  their 
turn  will  come  before  long,  but  mean- 
while the  wait  grows  tiresome. 

At  length  it  is  train  time,  and  so, 
hailing  a  taxi  and  picking  up  his  bag 
on  the  way,  Wilkins  heads  (let  us  say) 
for  the  Gare  de  TEst,  getting  there  just 
in  time  to  reserve  a  place  and  squeeze 
into  the  dining-car,  which  is  crowded 
with  officers  on  their  way  to  the  front. 
These  are  not  the  embusque  type  of 
officers  which  he  has  been  accustomed 


FULL-FLEDGED  117 

to  in  the  schools,  —  clerkish  disciplin- 
arians, insistent  on  all  the  small  points 
of  military  observance,  —  but  real  fight- 
ing men  and  leaders;  grizzled  veterans  of 
the  Champagne  and  the  Somme,  hawk- 
nosed,  keen-eyed,  covered  with  deco- 
rations. 

Back  in  his  compartment,  our  pilot 
dozes  through  the  afternoon,  until,  just 
as  it  has  become  thoroughly  dark,  the 
train  halts  at  Robinet.  On  the  platform, 
half  a  dozen  pilots  of  the  escadrille,  smart 
in  their  laced  boots  and  black  uniforms, 
are  waiting  to  welcome  the  newcomer, 
and  escort  him  promptly  to  the  mess, 
where  dinner  is  ready.  Dinner  over,  he  is 
shown  to  his  room  —  an  officer's  billet, 
with  a  stove,  bathtub,  and  other  unheard- 
of  luxuries. 

Next  morning,  one  of  his  new  com- 
rades calls  for  Wilkins,  presents  him  to 
the  captain,  who  proves  very  chic  and 
shows  him  his  machine,  which  has  just 


118  THE  FLEDGLING 

been  brought  out  from  the  dep6t.  The 
armorer  is  engaged  in  fitting  a  Vickers 
gun  on  it,  so  Wilkins  spends  the  rest  of 
the  day  at  the  hangar,  sighting  the  gun, 
adjusting  his  belt,  installing  altimeter, 
tachometer,  and  clock. 

An  hour  before  sundown  all  is  ready; 
so  the  American  climbs  into  his  seat 
for  a  spin,  fully  aware  that  many  ap- 
praising eyes  will  watch  his  maiden  per- 
formance. Off  she  goes  with  a  roar, 
skimming  low,  over  the  field,  until  her 
full  speed  is  attained,  when  the  pilot 
pulls  her  up  in  a  beautiful  *'zoom," 
banking  at  the  same  time  to  make  her 
climb  in  a  spiral.  Up  and  up  and  up, 
her  motor  snarling  almost  musically  — 
and  suddenly  she  stops,  quivers,  and 
plunges  downward,  spinning.  A  hundred 
yards  off  the  ground  she  straightens  out 
magically,  banks  stiffly  to  the  left,  skims 
the  hangars,  and  disappears.  The  mecha- 
nicians watching,  hands  on  hips,  below. 


FULL-FLEDGED  119 

nod  to  one  another  in  the  French  way. 
"H  marche  pas  mal,  eelui-la,"  they  say  — 
high  praise  from  them. 

Wilkins,  meanwhile,  has  flown  down 
the  river,  to  where  a  target  is  anchored 
in  a  broad  shallow.  Over  it  he  tilts  up 
and  dives  until  the  cross  hairs  in  his 
telescopic  sight  center  on  the  mark. 
"Tut-tut-tut,"  says  the  Vickers,  and 
white  dashes  of  foam  spring  out  close  to 
the  canvas.  He  nods  to  himself  as  he 
turns  back  toward  the  aerodrome. 

At  dinner  there  is  much  talk,  as  the 

weather  has  been  good.  A and  L ■ 

had  a  stiff  fight  with  a  two-place  Hun, 
who  escaped  miraculously,  leaving  their 

machines  riddled  with  holes.  M had 

a  landing  cable  cut  by  a  bullet;  J 

had  a  panne,  and  was  forced  to  land  un- 
comfortably close  to  the  lines.  At  eight 
o'clock  an  orderly  comes  in  with  the 
next  day's  schedule:  "Wilkins:  protec- 
tion patrol  at  8  a.m." 


120  THE  FLEDGLING 

The  French  have  not  the  English 
objection  to  "talking  shop,"  and  over 
the  coffee  the  conversation  turns  to  the 
difficulties  of  bringing  down  Huns  and 
getting  them  officially  counted  —  "homo- 
logue"  the  French  call  it.  The  great  air- 
men, of  course,  —  men  like  Bishop,  Ball, 
Nungesser,  and  Guynemer,  —  get  their 
thirty,  forty,  or  fifty  Boches;  but  never- 
theless it  is  a  very  considerable  feat  to 
get  even  one,  and  growing  harder  every 
day.  Nearly  all  the  German  hack-work  — 
photography,  reglage  of  artillery,  ob- 
servation, and  so  forth  —  is  now  done 
by  their  new  two-seaters,  very  fast  and 
handy  machines  and  formidable  to  attack, 
as  they  carry  four  machine-guns  and  can 
shoot  in  almost  any  direction.  Most  of 
the  fighting  must  be  done  in  their  lines; 
and  far  above,  their  squadrons  of  Al- 
batross single-seaters  watch  ceaselessly 
for  a  chance  to  pounce  unseen. 

Add  to  this  the  fact  that,  to  get  an 


FULL-FLEDGED  121 

official  count,  the  falling  Hun  must  be 
checked  by  two  independent  observers, 
such  as  observation-balloon  men,  and 
you  can  see  that  it  is  no  easy  trick. 

Just  before  bedtime,  the  leader  of  the 
morning's  patrol  explains  the  matter  to 
Wilkins.  The  rendezvous  is  over  a  near-by 
village  at  three  thousand  feet.  Wilkins 
is  to  be  last  in  line  on  the  right  wing  of 
the  V,  a  hundred  yards  behind  the 
machine  ahead  of  him.  Signals  are:  a 
wriggle  of  the  leader's  tail  means,  "Open 
throttles,  we're  off";  a  sideways  waving 
of  his  wings  means,  "I'm  going  to  attack; 
stand  by";  or,  "Easy,  I  see  a  Boche." 

After  a  not  entirely  dreamless  sleep 
and  a  cup  of  coffee,  our  hero  is  at  the 
hangars  at  7.30,  helping  his  mechanic 
give  the  "taxi"  a  final  looking  over.  At 
8  he  takes  the  air  and  circles  over  the 
meeting-place  till  the  V  is  formed.  Just 
as  he  falls  into  his  allotted  station  the 
leader,  who  has  been  flying  in  great  cir- 


122  THE  FLEDGLING 

cles,  throttled  down,  wriggles  his  tail, 
opens  the  throttle  wide,  and  heads  for 
the  lines,  climbing  at  a  hundred  miles  an 
hour. 

Wilkins  is  so  busy  keeping  his  posi- 
tion that  he  has  scarcely  time  to  feel  a 
thrill  or  to  look  about  him.  Suddenly, 
from  below  comes  a  vicious  growling 
thud,  another,  and  another:  Hrrrump, 
hrrrump,  hrrrump.  He  strains  his  head 
over  the  side  of  the  fuselage.  There  be- 
low him,  and  horribly  close,  he  thinks, 
dense  black  balls  are  springing  out  — 
little  spurts  of  crimson  at  their  hearts. 
The  patrol  leader  begins  to  weave  about 
to  avoid  the  "Archies,"  banking  almost 
vertically  this  way  and  that  in  hairpin 
turns,  and  poor  Wilkins,  at  the  tail  end, 
is  working  frantically  to  keep  his  place. 
He  has  never  seen  such  turns,  and  makes 
the  common  mistake  of  not  pulling  back 
hard  enough  when  past  forty-five  degrees. 
The  result  is  that  he  loses  height  in  a 


FULL-FLEDGED  123 

side-slip  each  time,  and  gets  farther  and 
farther  behind  his  man. 

Meanwhile,  far  up  in  the  blue,  their 
shark-like  bodies  and  broad  short  wings 
glimmering  faintly  in  the  upper  sun- 
light, a  patrol  of  Albatross  monoplaces 
is  watching.  Thousands  of  feet  below, 
close  to  the  trenches,  they  see  the  clumsy 
photographic  biplaces  puffing  back  and 
forth  about  their  business.  Above  these, 
they  see  the  V  of  Spads  turning  and  twist- 
ing as  they  strive  to  stay  above  the 
photographers  they  are  protecting.  But 
wait,  what  is  wrong  with  the  Spad  on  the 
right  end  of  the  V  —  a  beginner  surely, 
for  at  this  rate  he  will  soon  lose  his 
patrol  .f^  As  if  a  silent  signal  had  been 
given,  five  Albatrosses  detach  themselves 
from  the  flock,  and  reducing  their  motors 
still  more,  point  their  sharp  noses  down- 
ward, and  begin  to  drift  insensibly  nearer. 

Wilkins  has  been  having  a  tough  time 
of  it,  and  at  last,  in  a  three-hundred-foot 


lU  THE  FLEDGLING 

wing-slip,  has  lost  his  comrades  alto- 
gether, and  is  flying  erratically  here  and 
there,  too  intent  and  too  new  at  the  game 
to  watch  behind  him.  Suddenly,  two 
sparks  of  fire  like  tiny  shooting  stars 
whizz  by  him,  a  long  rip  appears  in  the 
fabric  of  his  lower  wing,  and  next  moment, 
clear  and  unmistakable,  he  hears,  "Tut, 
tut,  tut,  tut."  He  nearly  twists  his  head 
off,  and  perceives  with  horror  that  five 
sinister  forms,  gray,  sharp-snouted,  and 
iron-crossed,  are  hemming  him  in,  above, 
below,  behind.  His  thoughts,  which  oc- 
cupy possibly  a  second  and  a  half,  may 
be  set  down  roughly  as  follows:  "Five 
Boche  single-seaters  —  too  many  —  must 
beat  it  —  how?  Oh,  yes  —  climb  in  zig- 
zags and  circles,  heading  for  our  lines." 

Leaving  Wilkins  for  a  moment,  I  must 
tell  you  a  curious  thing  which  shows  that 
men  have  much  in  common  with  dogs. 
You  know  how,  in  his  own  yard,  a  fox- 
terrier  will  often  put  a  mastiff  to  flight  — 


FULL-FLEDGED  125 

and  a  fox-terrier,  at  that,  who  fears  for 
his  life  when  he  ventures  on  the  street? 
The  same  thing  appHes  to  flying  —  over 
the  German  Hnes  you  have  a  sort  of  a 
small,  insignificant  feeling,  look  at  things 
pessimistically,  and  are  apt  to  let  your 
imagination  run  too  freely.  The  minute 
you  are  over  friendly  country,  that 
changes:  your  chest  immediately  ex- 
pands several  inches,  you  become  self- 
assertive,  rude,  and  over-confident.  Thus 
Wilkins. 

In  a  wild  series  of  zooms  and  half- 
spirals,  to  throw  off  his  pursuers'  aim, 
he  reaches  his  own  lines  safely,  and  finds 
that  all  but  one  Albatross  have  given  up 
the  chase.  One  of  them,  possibly  a  be- 
ginner anxious  for  laurels,  is  not  to  be 
thrown  off;  so  the  American  resolves  to 
have  a  go  at  him. 

They  are  at  twelve  thousand  feet.  The 
German  is  behind  and  slightly  below, 
maneuvering  to  come  up  under  the  Spad's 


126  THE  FLEDGLING 

tail.  A  second's  thought,  and  Wilkins 
banks  sharply  to  the  left,  circles,  and 
dives  before  the  Boche  has  realized  that 
it  is  an  air-attack.  With  the  wind  scream- 
ing through  his  struts,  he  sees  the  enemy's 
black-leather  helmet  fair  on  the  cross 
hairs  of  the  telescope,  and  presses  the 
catch  of  the  gun.  A  burst  of  half  a  dozen 
shots,  a  pull  and  a  heave  to  avoid  collision. 
As  he  rushes  past  the  Albatross,  he  sees 
the  pilot  sink  forward  in  his  seat;  the 
machine  veers  wildly,  begins  to  dive,  to 
spin.  Good  God  —  he's  done  it  —  what 
luck  —  poor  devil! 

And  that  night  at  mess,  Wilkins  stands 
champagne  for  the  crowd. 

Young  H has  had  another  wild 

time.  He  ran  across  a  very  fast  German 
two-seater  ten  miles  behind  our  lines, 
fought  him  till  they  were  twenty  miles 
inside  the  Boche  lines,  followed  him 
down  to  his  own  aerodrome,  circled  at 
fifty  feet  in  a  perfect  hail  of  bullets,  killed 


FULL-FLEDGED  127 

the  Hun  pilot  as  he  walked  (or  ran)  from 
machine  to  hangars,  riddled  the  hangars, 
rose  up,  and  flew  home. 

He  shot  away  over  four  hundred  rounds 
—  a  remarkable  amount  from  a  single- 
seater  bus,  as  the  average  burst  is  only 
five  or  six  shots  before  one  is  forced  to 
maneuver  for  another  aim. 

On  a  raw  foggy  day,  in  the  cozy  living- 
room  of  our  apartment,  with  a  delicious 
fire  glowing  in  the  stove,  and  four  of  the 
fellows  having  a  lively  game  of  bridge, 
one  is  certainly  comfortable  —  absurdly 
so.  Talk  about  the  hardships  of  life  on 
the  front! 

The  mess  is  the  best  I  have  seen,  and 
very  reasonable  for  these  times  —  a  dollar 
and  a  half  per  day  each,  including  half  a 
bottle  of  wine,  beer,  or  mineral  water  at 
each  meal.  A  typical  dinner  might  be: 
excellent  soup,  entree,  beefsteak,  mashed 
potatoes,  dessert,  nuts,  figs,  salad.  While 


128  THE  FLEDGLING 

no  man  would  appreciate  an  old-fashioned 
home-type  American  meal  more  than  I, 
one  is  forced  to  admit  that  the  French 
have  made  a  deep  study  of  cookery  and 
rations  designed  to  keep  people  in  the 
best  shape.  There  is  a  certain  balance  to 
their  meals  —  never  too  much  concen- 
trated, starchy,  or  bulky  food.  The  vari- 
ety, considering  the  times,  is  really  won- 
derful. Breakfasts  my  pal  and  I  cook 
ourselves,  occasionally  breaking  out  some 
delicacy  such  as  kidneys  en  brochette. 

We  have  an  amusing  system  of  fines 
for  various  oflFenses:  haK  a  franc  if  late 
for  a  meal;  a  franc  if  over  fifteen  minutes 
late;  haK  a  franc  for  throwing  bread  at 
the  table;  haK  a  franc  for  breaking  a  tail- 
skid  (on  a  "cuckoo");  a  franc  for  a  com- 
plete smash;  a  franc  and  a  half  if  you  hurt 
yourself  to  boot;  and  so  on.  A  fellow  hit  a 
tree  a  while  ago,  had  a  frightful  crash, 
and  broke  both  his  legs.  When  he  leaves 
the  hospital,  the  court  will  decide  this 


FULL-FLEDGED  129 

precedent  and  probably  impose  on  him  a 
ruinous  fine. 

Of  course  no  one  ever  pays  a  fine 
without  passionate  protests;  so  our  meals 
are  enlivened  by  much  debate.  As  we 
have  a  very  clever  lawyer  and  a  law 
student  almost  his  equal,  accuser  and 
accused  immediately  engage  counsel,  and 
it  is  intensely  entertaining  to  hear  their 
impassioned  arraignments  and  appeals 
to  justice  and  humanity:  deathless  Gallic 
oratory,  enriched  with  quotations,  class- 
ical allusions,  noble  gestures;  such  stuflf 
as  brings  the  Chamber  to  its  feet,  roaring 
itself  hoarse;  and  all  for  a  ten-penny  fine! 

A  good  bit  of  excitement  lately,  over 
uniforms.  In  aviation,  one  knows,  there 
is  no  regulation  uniform:  each  man  is 
supposed  to  wear  the  color  and  cut  of 
his  previous  arm.  The  result  is  that  each 
airman  designs  for  himself  a  creation 
which  he  fondly  believes  is  suited  to  his 
style  of  soldierly  beauty  —  and  many  of 


130  THE  FLEDGLING 

these  confections  haven't  the  sHghtest 
connection  with  any  known  French  or 
AlHed  uniform.  One  may  see  dark-blue, 
light-blue,  horizon-blue,  black,  and  khaki; 
trousers  turned  up  at  the  bottom;  open- 
front  tunics  (like  a  British  oflScer),  and 
every  variety  of  hat,  footwear,  and  over- 
coat. 

I,  for  instance  (being  in  the  Foreign 
Legion),  wear  khaki,  open-fronted  tunic, 
a  very  unmilitary  khaki  stock  necktie. 
Fox's  puttees,  and  United  States  Army 
boots.  Naturally,  I  have  to  duck  for 
cover  whenever  I  see  the  general  loom 
up  in  the  offing;  for  he  is  a  rather  par- 
ticular, testy  old  gentleman,  very  mili- 
tary, and  can't  abide  the  "fantaisies"  of 
the  aviator  tribe.  Lately  he  has  caught 
and  severely  reprimanded  several  of  the 
boys;  so  I  guess  that  I  shall  have  to 
have  the  tailor  make  certain  unfortunate 
changes  in  my  garments. 

The  weather  of  late  has  been  wretched 


FULL-FLEDGED  131 

for  flying.  A  low,  frosty  mist  hangs  over 
the  countryside;  the  trees,  especially  the 
pines,  are  exquisite  in  their  lacy  finery 
of  frost.  The  few  days  we  have  of  decent 
weather  are  usually  interesting,  as  the 
Hun  ventures  over  chez  nous  to  take  a 
few  photographs,  and  with  a  little  luck 
the  boys  are  able  to  surprise  him  into  a 
running  fight.  At  night,  when  the  tired 
war-birds  buzz  home  to  roost,  a  crowd  of 
pilots  and  mechanics  gathers  before  the 
hangars.  All  gaze  anxiously  into  the 
northeastern  sky.  The  captain  paces  up 
and  down  —  though  he  has  flown  four 
hours,  he  will  not  eat  or  drink  till  he  has 
news  of  his  pilots.  Jean  is  missing,  and 
Chariot,  and  Marcel.  Night  is  drawing 
on  —  the  sky  flushes  and  fades,  and  faces 
are  growing  just  a  trifle  grave. 

Suddenly  a  man  shouts  and  points, 
—  Jean's  mechanician,  —  and  high  up  in 
the  darkening  east  we  see  three  specks  — 
the  missing  combat  patrol.  Next  moment 


132  THE  FLEDGLING 

the  hoarse  drone  of  their  motors  reaches 
our  ears;  the  sound  ceases;  in  great  curv- 
ing gUdes  they  descend  on  the  aerodrome. 
We  hear  the  hollow  whistling  of  their 
planes,  see  them,  one  after  another,  clear 
the  trees  at  ninety  miles  an  hour,  dip, 
straighten,  and  rush  toward  us,  a  yard 
above  the  grass.  A  slight  bumping  jar,  a 
half-stop,  and  each  motor  gives  tongue 
again  in  short  bursts,  as  the  pilots  taxi 
across  to  the  hangars,  snapping  the  spark 
on  and  off. 

Then  a  grand  scamper  to  crowd  around 
our  half-frozen  comrades,  who  descend 
stiflBy  from  their  "zincs,"  and  tell  of  their 
adventures,  while  mechanics  pull  oflE 
their  fur  boots  and  combinations.  Other 
"mecanos"  are  examining  the  machines 
for  bullet-  and  shrapnel-holes  —  often  a 
new  wing  is  needed,  or  a  new  propeller; 
sometimes  a  cable  is  cut  half  through. 
Snatches  of  talk  (unintelligible  outside 
the  "fancy")  reach  one;  we,  of  course. 


FULL-FLEDGED  1S3 

know  only  the  French,  but  the  R.F.C. 
stuflF  is  equally  cryptic. 

"Spotted  him  at  four  thousand  eight, 
*  piqued'  on  him,  got  under  his  tail,  did  a 
chandelle,  got  in  a  good  rafale,  did  a  glis- 
sade, went  into  a  vrille,  and  lost  so  much 
height  I  could  not  catch  him  again." 

An  R.F.C.  man  would  say,  "Spotted 
him  at  forty-eight  hundred,  dove  on  him, 
got  under  his  tail,  did  a  zoom,  got  in  a 
good  burst,  did  a  side-slip,  went  into  a 
spin,"  etc.  I  may  say  that  "chandelle"  or 
"zoom"  means  a  sudden,  very  steep  leap 
upward  (limited  in  length  and  steepness 
by  the  power  and  speed  of  the  machine). 
Some  of  our  latest  machines  will  do  the 
most  extraordinary  feats  in  this  line  — 
things  that  an  old  experienced  pilot  in 
America  would  have  to  see  to  believe.  A 
"glissade"  is  a  wing-slip  to  the  side,  and 
down;  a  "vrille"  is  a  spinning  nose-dive. 

Among  the  younger  pilots  are  several 
who  entertain  spectators  with  all  sorts 


134  THE  FLEDGLING 

of  acrobatic  feats  over  the  aerodrome. 
A  fine  exhibition  of  skill  and  courage, 
but  foolish  at  times  —  especially  after 
a  fight,  when  vital  parts  may  be  danger- 
ously weakened  by  bullet-holes.  Too 
much  acrobacy  strains  and  weakens  the 
strongest  aeroplane.  I  believe  in  doing 
just  enough  to  keep  your  hand  in,  as  in 
fights  you  are  forced  to  put  enough  un- 
usual stresses  on  your  bus. 

I  hope  to  know  very  soon  whether  or 
not  we  are  to  be  transferred  to  the  Amer- 
ican army.  The  long  delay  has  worked 
hardships  on  a  good  many  of  us,  as  of 
course  no  pilot  could  begin  to  live  on  the 
pay  we  get.  The  Franco-American  Flying- 
Corps  fimd  (for  which,  I  believe,  we  must 
thank  the  splendid  generosity  of  Mr. 
Vanderbilt)  has  helped  immensely  in  the 
past,  but  some  of  the  boys  are  in  hard 
straits  now.  I  hope  we  shall  be  trans- 
ferred, because  the  pay  will  make  us  self- 


FULL-FLEDGED  135 

supporting,  and  any  American  would 
rather  be  in  United  States  uniform  now- 
adays, in  spite  of  the  bully  way  the  French 
treat  us,  and  our  liking  for  our  French 
comrades,  with  whom  it  will  be  a  wrench 
to  part. 

The  point  regarding  our  present  pay 
is  this:  all  French  aviators  are  volunteers, 
knowing  conditions  in  the  air-service  be- 
forehand. Before  volunteering,  therefore, 
they  arrange  for  the  necessary  private 
funds;  if  not  available,  they  keep  out  of 
flying.  We, get  two  and  a  half  francs  a  day 
(as  against  five  sous  in  the  infantry),  but 
on  the  other  hand,  we  are  lodged,  and 
forced  by  tradition  to  live,  like  officers. 
It  is  fine  for  the  chap  who  has  a  little 
something  coming  in  privately,  but  tough 
for  the  one  who  is  temporarily  or  per- 
manently "broke." 

Our  boys  are  going  to  do  splendid 
things  over  here.  Everywhere  one  sees 
discipline,    efficiency,    and    organization 


136  THE  FLEDGLING 

that  make  an  American's  chest  go  out. 
The  first  slackness  (unavoidable  at  the 
start  of  a  huge  and  unfamiliar  job)  has 
completely  disappeared.  People  at  home 
should  know  of  all  this  as  quickly  and  as 
much  in  detail  as  expedient:  they  are 
giving  their  money  and  their  flesh  and 
blood,  and  prompt  and  racy  news  helps 
wonderfully  to  hearten  and  stimulate 
those  whose  duty  is  at  home. 

For  myself,  there  is  nowhere  and  no- 
body I  would  rather  be  at  present  than 
here  and  a  pilot.  No  man  in  his  senses 
could  say  he  enjoyed  the  war;  but  as  it 
must  be  fought  out,  I  would  rather  be 
in  aviation  than  any  other  branch.  A 
pleasant  life,  good  food,  good  sleep,  and 
two  to  four  hours  a  day  in  the  air.  After 
four  hours  (in  two  spells)  over  the  lines, 
constantly  alert  and  craning  to  dodge 
scandalously  accurate  shells  and  sud- 
denly appearing  Boches,  panting  in  the 
thin  air  at  twenty  thousand  feet,  the  boys 


FULL-FLEDGED  137 

are,  I  think,  justified  in  calling  it  a  day.  I 
have  noticed  that  the  coolest  men  are  a 
good  bit  let  down  after  a  dogged  ma- 
chine-gun fight  far  up  in  the  rarefied  air. 
It  may  seem  soft  to  an  infantryman  — • 
twenty  hours  of  sleep,  eating,  and  loafing; 
but  in  reality  the  airman  should  be  given 
an  easy  time  outside  of  flying. 

I  was  imfortunate  enough  to  smash  a 
beautiful  new  machine  yesterday.  Not 
my  fault;  but  it  makes  one  feel  rotten  to 
see  a  bright  splendid  thing  one  has  begun 
to  love  strewn  about  the  landscape. 
Some  wretched  little  wire,  or  bit  of  dirt 
where  it  was  not  wanted,  made  my  engine 
stop  dead,  and  a  forced  landing  in  rough 
country  full  of  woods  and  ditches  is  no 
joke.  I  came  whizzing  down  to  the  only 
available  field,  turned  into  the  wind,  only 
to  see  dead  ahead  a  series  of  hopeless 
ditches  which  would  have  made  a  fright- 
ful end-over-end  crash.  Nothing  to  do 
but  pull  her  up  a  few  feet  and  sail  over. 


138  THE  FLEDGLING 

risking  a  loss  of  speed.  I  did  this,  and 
"pancaked"  fairly  gently,  but  had  to  hit 
ploughed  ground  across  the  furrow.  The 
poor  "coucou"  — my  joy  and  pride  — 
was  wrecked,  and  I  climbed,  or  rather 
dropped,  out,  with  nothing  worse  than  a 
sore  head,  where  the  old  bean  hit  the 
carlingue.  Now  all  the  world  looks  gray, 
though  our  captain  behaved  like  the 
splendid  chap  he  is  about  it:  not  a  word 
of  the  annoyance  he  must  have  felt. 

The  very  finest  motors,  of  course,  do 
stop  on  occasions.  Better  luck,  I  hope, 
from  now  on. 

As  the  days  go  by,  I  find  much  that 
is  novel  and  interesting  about  the  aerial 
war,  which  in  reality  is  quite  different 
from  any  idea  of  it  that  I  had  had.  I 
will  try  to  give  a  rough  idea  of  how  the 
upper  war  is  carried  on. 

The  trenches,  sometimes  visible,  often 
quite    invisible    from     the    heights     at 


FULL-FLEDGED  139 

which  one  flies,  form  the  dividing  line 
between  us  and  the  Boche.  Behind  them, 
at  distances  of  from  seven  to  fifteen 
miles,  are  the  aerodromes  —  a  few  acres 
of  tolerably  flat  land,  three  or  four  or  half 
a  dozen  hangars  (often  cleverly  camou- 
flaged), barracks,  and  sheds  for  auto- 
mobiles. Each  side,  of  course,  knows 
pretty  well  the  locations  of  the  enemy 
aerodromes.  This  gives  rise  to  a  certain 
amount  of  give  and  take  in  the  bombing 
line,  which,  in  the  end,  accomplishes  very 
little. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  in  certain 
sectors  the  aviator's  life  is  made  miser- 
able by  this  ceaseless  bombing,  while 
in  other  places  a  species  of  unwritten 
understanding  permits  him  to  sleep,  at 
least,  in  peace.  I  have  a  friend  in  a  far-off 
escadrille  who  has  to  jiunp  out  of  bed 
and  dive  for  the  dugouts  nearly  every 
clear  night,  when  the  sentry  hears  the 
unmistakable  Mercedes  hum  close  over- 


140  THE  FLEDGLING 

head,  the  shutting  off  of  the  motor,  and 
the  ominous  rush  of  air  as  the  Huns 
descend  on  their  mark.  He  knows  that 
the  Germans  get  as  good  as,  or  better 
than  they  give  —  but  the  knowledge  does 
not  make  up  for  lost  sleep.  In  my  sector, 
on  the  other  hand,  we  could  blow  the 
Boche  aerodromes  to  atoms  and  they 
could  probably  do  as  much  for  us,  but 
neither  side  has  started  this  useless 
"'strafing."  Just  before  an  attack,  such 
bombing  might  be  of  military  value; 
otherwise  it  only  harasses  vainly  men 
who  need  what  sleep  they  get,  and  de- 
stroys wealth  on  both  sides,  like  ex- 
changing men  in  checkers  without  prof- 
iting in  position.  I  have  heard  parlor 
warriors  at  home  say,  "By  all  means 
make  war  as  unpleasant  as  possible  — 
then  it  won't  happen  again."  But  there 
is  a  limit  to  this,  when  nothing  of  tactical 
value  is  accomplished. 

The  aerodromes  are  the  headquarters 


FULL-FLEDGED  141 

of  the  different  squadrons,  each  of  which 
is  speciaHzed  in  some  type  of  work.  Mili- 
tary aviation  divides  itself  into  certain 
groups,  requiring  different  types  of  ma- 
chines and  different  training  for  pilot  or 
observer.  These  groups  are  day-bombing, 
night-bombing,  observation,  photography, 
artillery  fire-control,  and  chasse.  I  would 
like  to  tell  you  all  about  the  different 
buses  used,  but  of  course  one  is  not  at 
liberty  to  do  so.  In  general,  bombing- 
machines  are  rather  large  two-seaters 
or  three-seaters,  designed  to  rise  to  great 
heights,  where  they  are  very  fast,  and 
capable  of  carrying  heavy  loads  for  long 
distances.  They  are,  naturally,  well  armed, 
but  depend  (for  safely  carrying  out  their 
missions)  principally  on  their  speed  at 
altitudes  of  eighteen  thousand  feet  or 
more.  Photography,  observation,  and 
artillery  control  machines,  on  the  other 
hand,  must  be  fast  at  lower  altitudes, 
handy  in  a  fight,  and  speedy  climbers. 


142  THE  FLEDGLING 

They  are,  so  far  as  I  know,  always  two- 
seaters,  and  are  really  the  most  impor- 
tant of  all  aeroplanes.  I  believe  that  all 
the  allied  designers  should  work  together 
to  produce  a  single  uniform  type  of  two- 
seater  —  small,  quick  to  maneuver,  and 
very  fast  up  to  fifteen  or  sixteen  thousand 
feet.  Such  machines,  flying  about  their 
work  in  small  groups,  are  truly  formid- 
able things  for  single-seater  scouts  to 
attack,  as  they  are  nearly  as  fast  and 
handy,  and  have  the  enormous  advantage 
of  being  able  to  shoot  backward  as  well  as 
forward.  With  light  double-controls  for 
the  machine-gun  man  or  observing  officer 
(who  would  take  a  few  lessons  in  emer- 
gency flying),  they  could  not  be  brought 
down  by  killing  the  pilot — a  most  valuable 
feature.  ,^ 

The  Boches  have  such  machines,  — 
particularly  the  Rumpler,  —  which  are 
tough  nuts  to  crack,  even  when  out- 
numbered. Two  of  our  boys  had  a  run- 


FULL-FLEDGED  143 

ning  fight  with  a  Rumpler  recently,  and 
dove  at  him  alternately  for  thirty  min- 
utes over  forty  miles  of  country.  Both 
were  nearly  brought  down  in  the  process 
—  and  they  failed  to  bag  the  enemy 
machine,  though  at  the  last  they  did  for 
the  observer.  This  shows  the  great  value 
of  the  fast  two-place  bus.  I  doubt  if 
people  at  home  are  aware  of  the  diflScul- 
ties  of  designing  a  two-seater  which  one 
could  pronounce,  without  hesitation,  the 
best.  It  must  have  four  major  quahties: 
speed,  climbing  ability,  diving  speed,  and 
handiness.  The  need  of  strength,  or  high 
factor  of  safety,  goes  without  saying. 
Speed  is  simply  a  matter  of  power  and 
head  resistance,  and  is  comparatively 
easy  to  attain  alone;  the  rub  comes  in 
combining  with  it  the  requisite  climbing 
power,  and  factor  of  safety.  The  Germans, 
in  general,  seem  to  believe  in  a  very 
heavy,  substantial  motor,  which  cuts 
their  climbing  to  a  certain  extent,  but 


144  THE  FLEDGLING 

gives  them  a  very  fast  dive.  The  AUies' 
machines,  I  should  say,  are  sHghtly  faster 
climbers,  but  cannot  follow  a  diving  Hun. 
And  so  it  goes  —  to  have  one  quality  in 
perfection,  another  must  be  sacrificed. 

Last  of  all  come  the  single-seaters, 
whose  sole  purpose  is  to  fight.  Many 
different  types  have  been  tried  —  mono- 
planes, biplanes,  and  triplanes,  with  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  fixed  and  rotary  motors. 
At  present  the  biplane  seems  to  have 
it  (though  I  have  seen  an  experimental 
monoplane  that  is  a  terror),  as  the  mono- 
plane is  by  nature  too  weak,  and  the 
triplane  (magnificent  otherwise!)  is  too 
slow  in  diving  for  either  attack  or  escape. 

The  work  the  different  groups  per- 
form seems  to  be  roughly  the  same  in 
the  Allied  and  enemy  armies.  The  day- 
bombers  fly  at  great  heights,  sometimes 
escorted  and  protected  by  single-seaters. 
The  night-bombers  fly  fairly  low,  never 
escorted.  Photographers,  observers,  and 


FULL-FLEDGED  14^ 

artillery  regulators  have  a  nasty  job,  as 
they  must  fly  rather  low,  constantly  sub- 
jected to  a  galling  attention  from  old 
Archibald.  When  their  mission  requires 
it,  they  are  escorted  by  chasse  machines 
—  a  job  that  single-seater  pilots  do  not 
pine  for,  because  they  often  go  twenty  or 
thirty  miles  into  "Bochie,"  where  motor- 
trouble  means  a  soup  diet  till  the  end 
of  the  war;  and  because,  at  low  altitudes, 
hovering  over  a  slow  "cuckoo,"  the  anti- 
aircraft gunners  have  too  good  a  time. 

The  single-seaters  may  be  divided  into 
two  classes:  the  first  does  escort  work 
about  half  the  time,  the  second  does 
nothing  but  parade  up  and  down  the 
lines,  hunting  for  trouble.  The  last  are 
the  elite  among  airmen.  Unfortunately  I 
am  not  one  of  them,  as  they  are  recruited 
only  from  tried  and  skillful  pilots.  As  to 
fighting,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  popu- 
lar misconception.  One  imagines  pictur- 
esque duels  to  the  death,  between  A  (the 


146  THE  FLEDGLING 

great  French  or  English  ace)  and  X  (his 
German  competitor)  —  the  multitude  of 
straining,  upturned  eyes,  the  distant  rat- 
tle of  shots,  the  flaming  spin  of  the  loser. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  duel  between  two 
monoplaces,  handled  by  pilots  of  any- 
thing like  equal  skill,  who  are  aware  of 
each  other's  presence,  is  not  unlikely  to 
end  without  bloodshed.  Bear  in  mind 
that  they  can  shoot  only  forward,  that 
the  gun  must  be  aimed  by  aiming  the 
whole  machine  (to  which  it  is  fixed  im- 
movably), and  that  a  twisting,  climb- 
ing, banking  aeroplane,  traveling  at  over 
one  hundred  miles  per  hour,  is  no  joke  to 
hit  in  its  small  vitals,  and  you  can  see 
that  this  must  be  so. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  vast  majority 
of  fights  which  end  in  a  victory  are  be- 
tween scouts  and  two-seaters,  and  that 
it  needs  two  scouts  to  attack  one  bi- 
place  with  anything  like  even  chances 
of  winning.  Think  a  moment.  The  two- 


FULL-FLEDGED  147 

seater  is  nearly  as  fast  and  handy  as  you 
are;  he  can  therefore  avoid  you  and  shoot 
forward  almost  as  well,  and  in  addition, 
he  has  a  man  astern  who  can  shoot  up, 
sideways,  and  backwards  with  most  su- 
perior accuracy.  This  disconcerting  in- 
dividual, it  is  true,  cannot  shoot  straight 
down  when  the  wings  are  horizontal,  but 
to  enable  him  to  do  so,  the  pilot  has  only 
to  tilt  the  machine  to  the  necessary  angle. 
Now,  suppose  two  French  monoplaces 
sight  an  Iron-Crossed  two-seater.  Flying 
at  sixteen  thousand  feet,  they  see  French 
shrapnel  in  white  puffs  bursting  below 
them  at  two  thousand  feet,  and  several 
miles  away.  They  change  their  course, 
and  presently,  dodging  in  and  out  among 
the  fleecy  balls,  they  espy  a  fast  biplace, 
heavily  camouflaged  in  queer  splotches 
of  green,  brown,  and  violet.  Coming 
nearer,  they  make  out  the  crosses  —  ha, 
a  Boche!  Nearer  and  nearer  they  come, 
till  they  are  four  hundred  yards  behind 


148  THE  FLEDGLING 

and  six  hundred  feet  above  the  enemy, 
who  has  seen  them  and  is  making  tracks 
for  home.  Three  hundred  yards,  by  the 
way,  is  the  closest  one  may  safely  ap- 
proach a  machine-gun  in  the  air.  At  this 
point  A  dives  on  the  Boche  to  about 
two  himdred  and  fifty  yards,  shoots  a 
short  burst,  and  veers  off.  The  German 
machine-gunner  lets  him  have  a  rafale, 
but  meanwhile  B  has  dived  under  and 
behind  the  enemy's  tail.  There  he  stays, 
at  a  fairly  safe  distance,  with  his  eye  on 
the  rudder  above  him,  ready  to  anticipate 
the  banks  which  might  enable  the  gunner 
to  get  in  a  burst.  As  soon  as  A  sees  that 
B  is  beneath  the  Boche,  he  dives  and 
shoots  again.  The  gunner  is  in  a  quandary 
—  if  he  aims  at  A,  B  will  slip  up  and  for- 
ward, rear  his  machine  into  position,  and 
deliver  a  possibly  deadly  burst.  If  he  de- 
votes his  attention  to  B,  A  will  be  safe 
to  make  a  dive  to  dangerously  close 
quarters.  There  you  have  the  theory  of 


FULL-FLEDGED  149 

the  most  common  of  all  attacks  —  but 
in  reality  it  is  more  difficult  than  it 
sounds.  The  three  machines  are  traveling 
at  great  speed,  and  constantly  twisting, 
rearing,  and  diving.  It  is  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world  to  pass  another  plane,  turn 
to  follow  it,  and  see  nothing,  no  matter 
how  you  strain  your  eyes.  In  passing, 
your  combined  speed  might  be  roughly 
one  hundred  and  twenty  yards  per  second^ 
and  you  are  both  moving  in  three  di- 
mensions. The  object  for  which  you  search 
may  be  to  the  side,  ahead,  above,  below; 
and  every  second  of  your  search  may  be 
increasing  its  distance  at  enormous  speed. 

It  is  bitterly  cold,  and  I  am  sitting  in 
our  cozy  mess-room  waiting  for  lunch, 
which  is  at  twelve.  A  dense  fog  hangs 
over  the  aerodrome,  and  the  trees  are 
beautifully  frosted. 

Just  had  word  that  a  boy  who  was  at 
Avord  in  my  time  has  bagged  one  of  the 
"Tangos"  —  no   mean   feat.    It   is   the 


150  THE  FLEDGLING 

crack  escadrille  of  all  Germany  —  Alba- 
tross Dill's,  driven  by  the  pick  of  the 
Hun  fighting  pilots,  and  commanded,  I 
believe,  by  Von  Richthofen  —  the  most 
famous  of  German  aces.  They  are  a 
formidable  aggregation,  recognizable  by 
rings  of  tango  red  around  their  Iron 
Crosses,  and  stripes  of  the  same  color 
along  the  fuselage.  For  a  young  pilot  to 
bring  one  of  these  birds  down  in  one  of 
his  first  flights  over  the  lines  is  a  won- 
derful piece  of  luck  and  skill. 

On  days  (like  to-day)  when  the  weather 
makes  flying  impossible,  the  fellows  sleep 
late,  make  a  long,  luxurious  toilet,  break- 
fast, and  stroll  down  to  the  hangars, 
where  they  potter  around  their  "zincs," 
feeling  over  the  wires,  adjusting  the  con- 
trols, tinkering  their  machine-guns,  or 
perhaps  fitting  on  some  sort  of  new  trick 
sight.  Sights  are  a  hobby  with  every  pilot 
and  nearly  every  one  has  different  ideas 
on  the  subject,  advocating  telescopic  or 


FULL-FLEDGED  151 

open,  one  or  two-eye  outfits.  Then,  if  one 
is  extra  careful,  he  takes  out  the  long  belt 
of  cartridges,  feels  each  bullet  to  make 
siu*e  it  is  tightly  crimped  in  the  shell,  and 
pushes  and  pulls  the  shells  until  all  are 
exactly  even.  "Jams"  are  the  curse  of 
this  game,  and  no  amount  of  trouble  is 
too  much,  if  it  insures  a  smooth  working 
gun.  Some  jams  can  be  fixed  in  the  air, 
but  others  render  you  defenseless  until 
you  can  land. 

Each  pilot  has  his  own  mechanic,  who 
does  nothing  but  look  after  his  bus,  and 
is  usually  a  finished  comedian  in  addition 
to  being  a  crack  mechanic.  In  truth,  I 
never  ran  across  a  more  comical,  likable, 
hard-working  crew  than  the  French  avi- 
ation mechanics.  They  are  mostly  pure 
Parisian  ''gamins"  —  speaking  the  most 
extraordinary  jargon,  in  which  every- 
thing but  the  verbs  (and  half  of  them)  is 
slang,  of  the  most  picturesque  sort.  Quick- 
witted,  enormously   interested   in   their 


152  THE  FLEDGLING 

work,  intelligent  and  good-natured,  they 
are  the  aristocrats  of  their  trade,  and 
know  it.  You  should  see  them  when  they 
go  on  leave.  Jean  or  Chariot,  ordinarily  the 
most  oily  and  undignified  of  men,  steps  out 
of  the  squadron  oflSee  arrayed  in  a  superb 
blue  uniform,  orange  tabs  on  his  collar, 
a  mirror-like  tan  belt  about  his  waist  — 
shaven,  shorn,  shining  with  cleanliness, 
puffing  an  expensive-looking,  gilt-banded 
cigar.  Is  it  fancy  —  or  is  there  a  slight 
condescension  in  his  greeting  .^^  Well,  it  is 
natural  —  you  can  never  hope  to  look  so 
superbly  like  a  field-marshal.  A  little 
crowd  of  pals  gathers  around,  for  it  is 
just  after  lunch;  and  presently  the  motor- 
bus  draws  up  with  a  scream  of  brakes  and 
a  cloud  of  dust.  The  motor  has  "AV"  in 
big  letters  on  the  side,  and  its  driver 
(not  to  be  confounded  with  any  mere  am- 
bulance or  lorry  chauffeur)  would  feel  it 
a  disgrace  to  travel  under  forty  miles  an 
hour,  or  to  make  anything  but  the  most 


FULL-FLEDGED  153 

spectacular  of  turns  and  stops.  The  driver 
produces  a  silver  cigarette  case,  passes  it 
round,  takes  a  weed,  taps  it  on  his  wrist, 
and  chaffs  the  permissionnaire  about  a 
new  godmother  on  whom  he  is  planning 
to  call  in  Paris. 

Presently  the  captain  steps  out  of  his 
oflSce;  the  departing  one  spins  about, 
head  back  and  chest  out,  cigar  hidden 
in  his  left  hand;  "click" — his  heels 
come  together  magnificently,  and  up 
goes  his  right  hand  in  a  rigid  salute. 
Smiling  behind  his  mustache,  our  ex- 
tremely attractive  captain  salutes  in  re- 
turn, and  shakes  Chariot's  hand  warmly, 
wishing  him  a  pleasant  leave.  He  is  off,  and 
you  can  picture  him  to-morrow  strolling 
with  princely  nonchalance  along  the  boule- 
vards. What  if  he  earns  but  five  cents  a 
day  —  he  saves  most  of  that,  and  his  pilot 
presents  him  with  a  substantial  sum  every 
Saturday  night,  all  of  which  is  put  away 
for  the  grand  splurge,  three  times  a  year. 


154  THE  FLEDGLING 

In  Paris,  you  will  recognize  the  type 
—  well  dressed  in  neat  dark  blue,  orange 
collar  with  the  group  number  on  it,  finger- 
nails alone  showing  the  unmistakable 
traces  of  his  trade,  face,  eyes  and  manner 
registering  interest  and  alert  intelligence. 
As  likely  as  not  you  see  him  on  the  terrace 
of  some  great  cafe  —  a  wonderfully  smart 
little  midinette  (his  feminine  counterpart) 
beside  him,  with  shining  eyes  of  pride  — 
and  at  the  next  table  a  famous  general  of 
division,  ablaze  with  the  ribbons  of  half 
a  dozen  orders. 

The  "mecanos"  dress  as  nearly  like 
pilots  as  they  dare,  and  after  flying  is 
over  in  the  evening  are  apt  to  appear 
about  the  hangars  in  the  teddy-bear 
suits  and  fur  boots  of  the  "patron."  Some 
funny  things  happen  at  such  times. 
There  is  a  class  of  officers,  called  "officers 
of  administration,"  attached  to  squadrons 
and  groups  of  aviation,  who  do  not  fly, 
but  look  after  the  office  and  business  end 


FULL-FLEDGED  155 

of  the  equipe.  They  are  worthy  men  and 
do  absolutely  necessary  work,  but  some- 
how are  not  very  swank. 

One  day  it  became  known  that  the 
revered  Guynemer  was  to  visit  a  certain 
escadrille,  and  naturally  all  the  officers 
were  on  fire  to  shake  the  hero's  hand  —  a 
reminiscence  to  hand  down  to  their  chil- 
dren's children.  The  administration  offi- 
cer —  a  first  lieutenant  —  was  late  in 
getting  away  from  the  bureau,  and  when 
he  got  to  the  field,  Guynemer  had  landed, 
left  his  machine,  and  gone  to  have  the 
sacred  aperitif  of  five  o'clock.  Meanwhile, 
the  chief  comedian  of  all  the  mechanics, 
dressed  by  chance  in  his  pilot's  combina- 
tion and  boots,  and  proud  to  tinker  (with 
reverent  fingers)  the  famous  Spad,  had 
run  out  to  where  it  stood,  filled  it  with 
gas  and  oil,  touched  up  the  magneto,  and 
cleaned  a  couple  of  plugs.  The  officer,  as 
he  came  to  the  hangars,  perceived  the 
well-known  "taxi,"  with  the  stork  on  its 


156  THE  FLEDGLING 

side,  and  a  furry  figure  strolling  towards 
him.  A  snap  of  heels,  the  position  of  at- 
tention, and  he  was  saluting  (as  he 
thought)  one  of  the  most  glorious  figures 
of  France.  The  comedy  mechanician — • 
taking  in  the  situation  at  a  glance  — • 
strolled  magnificently  by,  with  a  careless 
salute  and  a  nod.  The  oflBcer  never  in- 
quired who  it  was  he  had  saluted  —  but 
what  a  tale  to  pass  around  the  barrack 
stove  on  winter  evenings!  Mistaken  for 
Guynemer!  Saluted  by  a  two-striper! 

In  clothes  and  get-up  the  mechanics 
follow  the  pilots'  lead,  but  in  language 
the  situation  is  reversed  —  we  take  pride 
in  memorizing,  chuckling  over,  and  using 
at  every  opportunity  the  latest  word  or 
phrase  invented  by  these  gifted  slangsters. 
An  aeroplane  is  never  "avion"  or  "ap- 
pareil,"  but  "zinc,"  "taxi,"  or  "coucou." 
Motor  is  "moulin" — to  start  it,  one 
"turns  the  mill."  In  the  aviation,  one 
does  not  eat,  one  "pecks."  One  is  not 


FULL-FLEDGED  157 

killed  —  one  "breaks  one's  face,"  though 
face  is  not  the  inelegant  word  in  use. 
Gasoline  is  "sauce";  to  open  the  throttle, 
you  "give  her  the  sauce."  A  motor  break- 
down is  not,  as  in  the  automobile  serv- 
ice, a  "panne,"  but  a  "carafe" — heaven 
knows  why!  and  so  on. 

Life  out  here  is  in  many  ways  a  con- 
trast to  the  last  six  months.  Though  only 
a  beginner,  a  bleu,  I  am  Somebody, 
through  the  mere  fact  of  being  a  pilot, 
and  most  of  all  a  pilote  de  chasse  —  a 
most  chic  thing  to  be.  I  must  dress  well, 
shave  daily,  wear  my  hair  brushed  straight 
back  and  long,  —  in  contrast  to  all  other 
branches  of  the  army,  —  have  my  boots 
and  belt  polished  like  a  mirror,  and  fre- 
quent only  the  best  cafe  in  town.  These 
are,  of  course,  unwritten  rules,  but  sternly 
lived  up  to  —  and  I  confess  that  the 
return  of  self-respect,  after  months  of 
dirt  and  barrack  life,  is  not  unpleasant. 

Our  escadrille,  composed  of  ten  French 


/ 


158  THE  FLEDGLING 

pilots,  two  Americans,  and  the  officers,  is 
really  a  very  decent  crowd  of  chaps  of 
good  family  and  education.  Frenchmen  of 
this  kind  are  good  fellows  and  pleasant 
companions,  differing  from  us  only  on 
certain  racial  points  of  outlook  and 
humor.  Among  them  are  two  lawyers 
(with  all  the  French  lawyer's  delicate 
wit,  irony,  and  love  of  play  on  words),  a 
large  wine-grower  (if  you  can  grow  wine), 
a  professional  soldier  from  Morocco,  a 
medical  student,  and  my  room-mate,  a 
most  attractive  chap,  an  English  public- 
school  man,  whose  family  are  French  im- 
porters in  London.  He  has  been  nearly 
everywhere,  is  absolutely  bi-lingual,  and 
is  the  sort  of  man  who  is  at  home  in  any 
kind  of  company. 

From  time  to  time,  of  course,  some 
one  is  brought  down,  and  though  I  dis- 
like it  intensely,  one  feels  that  decency 
demands  one's  presence  at  the  funeral. 
Elaborate,  rather  fine  ceremony  usually. 


FULL-FLEDGED  159 

where  the  GaUic  emotional  nature  appears 
at  its  best.  At  the  last  one,  for  instance, 
the  captain  (brave  as  a  lion,  and  a  man 
to  his  finger-tips)  was  overcome  in  the 
midst  of  his  speech  of  eulogy  and  burst 
into  tears.  Impossible  to  an  Anglo-Saxon, 
but  to  me  there  was  something  very  fine 
in  the  sight  of  this  splendid  oflScer, 
frankly  overcome  with  grief  at  the  loss  of 
one  of  his  men.  When  the  ceremony  is 
over,  each  pilot  and  friend  comes  to  pay 
respect  to  the  departed  comrade,  takes 
up  in  turn  an  implement  shaped  like  an 
Indian-club,  dips  it  in  holy  water,  makes 
a  sign  with  it  over  the  coffin,  draped  in 
the  Tri-color,  and  sprinkles  a  few  drops 
of  water  on  the  flag. 

At  om*  mess,  we  have  queer  little 
things  of  glass  to  rest  knife  and  fork  on, 
while  the  dishes  are  being  changed;  and 
last  night  at  dinner,  when  the  captain's 
orderly  assigned  one  pilot  to  a  particularly 
ticklish  mission,  an    irrepressible  Ameri- 


160  THE  FLEDGLING 

can  youth  who  was  dining  with  us  picked 
up  one  of  these  knife-rests  (shaped  exactly 
like  a  holy-water  sprinkler),  stood  up 
very  solemnly,  made  the  sign  over  his 
victim,  and  sprinkled  a  few  drops  on  his 
head.  Amid  roars  of  laughter  every  one 
at  the  table  stood  up  in  turn  and  did  like- 
wise. A  harmless  joke  to  us,  but  I  am  not 
sure  of  its  good  taste  to  a  Frenchman. 

If  I  had  known  France  before  the  war 
I  could  decide  better  a  question  that  con- 
stantly occurs  to  me:  "Has  France  grown 
more  religious  with  war?"  The  educated 
Frenchman  is  certainly  the  most  intelli- 
gent, the  most  skeptical,  the  least  inclined 
to  take  things  on  trust  of  all  men,  yet  on 
the  whole  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
religious  feeling  (by  no  means  orthodox 
religion)  has  grown  and  is  growing.  In 
peace  times,  death  seems  a  vitally  impor- 
tant thing,  to  be  spoken  of  with  awe  and 
to  be  dreaded,  perhaps  as  the  end  of  the 
game,  if  you  chance  to  be  a  materialist. 


FULL-FLEDGED  161 

All  that  is  changed  now.  You  go  to 
Paris  on  leave,  you  spend  two  or  three 
days  delightfully  with  Bill  or  Jim  or 
Harry,  a  very  dear  friend,  also  in  on 
leave  from  his  battery,  regiment,  or 
squadron. 

A  week  later  some  one  runs  up  to  you 
with  a  long  face.  "Bill  got  crowned  on 
Thursday,"  he  says;  "joined  a  Boche  pa- 
trol by  mistake  and  brought  down  before 
he  saw  the  crosses.  Poor  old  cuss."  You 
sigh,  thinking  of  the  pleasant  hours  you 
have  passed  with  Bill  —  your  long  talks 
together,  his  curious  and  interesting  kinks 
of  outlook,  the  things  which  make  per- 
sonality, make  one  human  being  different 
from  another.  Somehow  your  thoughts 
don't  dwell  on  his  death  as  they  would 
in  peace-times  —  a  week  or  a  month  later 
your  mind  has  not  settled  into  taking  for 
granted  his  non-existence.  Next  time  you 
visit  Paris,  you  hasten  to  his  former 
haunts  —  haK  expecting  to  find  him  ab- 


162  THE  FLEDGLING 

sorbing  a  bock  and  expounding  his  peculiar 
philosophy. 

Is  there  a  life  after  death?  Of  course 
there  is  —  you  smile  a  little  to  yourself 
to  think  you  could  ever  have  believed 
otherwise.  This,  I  am  confident,  is  com- 
mon experience  nowadays.  The  belief 
that  individuality  ceases,  that  death  is 
anything  but  a  quick  and  not  very  alarm- 
ing change,  is  too  absurd  to  hold  water. 
It  is  a  comforting  thought  and  gives  men 
strength  to  perform  duties  and  bear 
losses  which  in  ordinary  times  would 
come  hard. 

I  have  just  been  made  popotier  —  I 
don't  know  what  you  call  it  in  English, 
but  it  means  the  individual  who  attends 
to  the  mess :  buys  provisions,  wine,  and  so 
forth,  makes  out  menus,  keeps  accounts, 
and  bosses  the  cook.  A  doubtful  honor, 
but  one  of  which  I  am  rather  proud  when 
1  think  that  a  crowd  of  French  officers 


FULL-FLEDGED  163 

have  entrusted  to  me  the  sacred  rites  of 
the  table.  I  was  never  much  of  a  gourmet, 
but  what  Httle  I  know  stands  me  in  good 
stead. 

To-day  was  the  occasion  of  the  first 
considerable  feast  under  my  regime  — 
a  lunch  given  by  the  officers  of  our 
squadron  to  some  distinguished  French 
visitors.  The  cook  and  I  held  long  and 
anxious  consultations  and  finally  turned 
out  a  meal  on  which  every  one  compli- 
mented us :  excellent  hors  d'oeuvres,  grilled 
salmon  steaks,  roast  veal,  asparagus,  and 
salad.  A  dry  Chablis  with  the  fish  and 
some  really  good  Burgundy  with  the 
roast.  Not  bad  for  the  front,  really. 

I  give  the  cook  each  night  enough 
money  for  the  next  day's  marketing. 
The  following  evening  he  tells  me  the 
amount  of  the  day's  expenses,  which  sum 
I  divide  by  the  number  present,  giving 
each  man's  share  for  the  day.  Very  simple. 

Since  I  got  my  new  machine  I  have 


164  THE  FLEDGLING 

become  a  genuine  hangar-loafer.  It  is 
so  delicate  and  complicated  that  my  un- 
fortunate mechanics  have  to  work  prac- 
tically all  the  time  to  keep  me  going. 
The  only  way  to  get  the  work  done  well 
is  to  know  about  it  yourself;  and  so, 
against  my  instincts,  I  have  been  forced 
for  the  first  time  to  study  the  technical 
and  mechanical  side  of  my  bus. 

Some  say,  "The  pilot  should  never 
know  too  much  about  his  machine  — 
it  destroys  his  dash."  Perhaps  they  are 
right  —  certainly  a  plunge  into  this  maze 
of  technicalities  destroys  his  sleep  — 
there  is  an  unwholesome  fascination  about 
it:  hundreds  of  delicate  and  fragile  parts, 
all  synchronized  as  it  were  and  working 
together,  any  one  of  which,  by  its  defec- 
tion, can  upset  or  even  wreck  the  whole 
fabric.  A  simple  motor-failure,  even  in 
our  own  lines  and  at  a  good  altitude,  is 
no  joke  in  the  case  of  the  modern  single- 
seater.  Small  and  enormously  heavy  for 


FULL-FLEDGED  165 

its  wing-surface,  it  first  touches  ground  at 
too  high  a  speed  for  anything  but  the 
longest  and  smoothest  fields.  In  pannes 
of  this  sort,  the  pilot  usually  steps  out 
of  the  most  frightful-looking  wreck  smil- 
ing and  quite  unhurt;  but  you  can  scarcely 
imagine  the  chagrin  and  depression  one 
feels  at  breaking  a  fine  machine.  I  did  it 
once,  and  it  made  me  half  sick  for  a  week, 
though  it  was  not  really  my  fault  at  all. 

After  lunch,  instead  of  taking  a  nap 
as  one  does  when  on  duty  at  daybreak, 
I  go  to  the  "bar"  to  read  letters  and 
papers  and  see  friends  from  the  other 
squadrons.  As  I  go  in  the  door,  five 
friends  in  flying  clothes  go  out. 

"See  you  in  two  hours,"  says  Lieuten- 
ant D .  "Let's  have  a  poker  game; 

I've  got  a  patrol  now." 

"All  right,"  I  say,  "I'll  be  here" — 
though  I'm  not  very  keen  on  French 
poker,  which  is  somewhat  different  from 
ours. 


166  THE  FLEDGLING 

The  two  hours  pass  in  a  wink  of  time 
as  I  lie  in  a  steamer-chair,  reading  and 
reveling  in  the  warm  drowsy  May  after- 
noon. A  sound  of  motors,  the  hollow 
whistling  rush  of  landing  single-seaters, 
and  I  glance  out  of  the  door.  Here  they 
come,  lumbering  across  the  field  —  but 
only  four.  I  get  up  hastily  and  run  to 
where  the  flight-commander  is  descend- 
ing stiffly  from  his  bus.  His  face  is  long, 
as  we  crowd  around. 

"Where's  D ?'^  I  ask  anxiously. 

"Brought  down,  I'm  afraid,"  he  an- 
swers. "We  chased  some  two-seaters 
twenty-five  miles  into  the  Boche  lines, 
and  nine  Albatrosses  dropped  on  us.  Got 
two  of  them,  I  think;  but  after  the  first 

mix-up,  I  lost  track  of  D ,  and  he 

did  n't  come  back  with  us." 

A  melancholy  little  procession  heads 
for  the  bar,  and  while  the  affair  is  being 
reexplained,  the  telephone  rings. 

"Lieutenant   D has   been   found 


FULL-FLEDGED  167 

at   X .    He   was   shot    through    the 

chest,  but  managed  to  regain  our  Hues 
before  he  died.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
landing  in  a  field  when  he  lost  con- 
sciousness. The  machine  is  not  badly 
smashed." 

At  a  near-by  table,  a  dice  game,  which 
started  after  lunch  and  has  been  inter- 
rupted to  hear  the  news,  continues.  I 
resume  my  place  in  my  chair  and  spread 
out  the  Paris  "Herald"  —  unable  to  fo- 
cus my  mind  on  the  steamship  arrivals 
or  the  offensive.  Poor  old  D ! 

We  have  had  lovely  weather  for  the 
past  fortnight  —  long  warm  days  have 
made  the  trees  burst  into  leaf  and  cov- 
ered the  meadows  with  wild-flowers. 
The  quail  have  begun  to  nest  —  queer 
little  fellows,  quite  unlike  ours,  whose 
love-song  is,  ''Whit,  twit,  whit,"  with 
a  strong  emphasis  on  the  first  "whit." 

Sometimes,  at  night,  a  nightingale, 
on  a  tree  outside  my  window,  charms 


168  THE  FLEDGLING 

me   to   wakefulness   with   his   dripping- 
sweet  music. 

These  are  strenuous  days  —  I  have 
done  nothing  but  fly,  eat,  and  sleep 
for  a  fortnight.  Our  "traveling  circus" 
has  been  living  up  to  its  name  —  going 
about  from  place  to  place  with  amazing 
mobility  and  speed.  I  have  lived  for  a 
week  with  no  baggage  but  the  little  bag 
I  carry  in  my  plane.  It  contains  one 
change  of  light  underwear,  one  pair  of 
socks,  tooth-brush,  tooth-paste,  tobacco, 
sponge,  soap,  towel,  shaving  things,  mir- 
ror, a  first-aid  kit,  and  a  bottle  of  eau  de 
cologne.  With  this  I  can  weather  a  few 
days  anywhere  until  the  baggage-trucks 
catch  up. 

Our  mobility  is  marvelous  —  we  can 
receive  our  orders  at  daybreak,  break- 
fast, and  land  in  a  place  a  hundred  miles 
away  in  an  hour  and  a  half.  Then  a  little 
oil  and  petrol,  and  we  are  ready  to  bounce 


FULL-FLEDGED  169 

something  oflf  the  local  Boche.  I  could 
easily  write  a  large  calf-bound  volume 
on  nothing  but  my  experiences  of  the 
past  week  —  one  of  the  most  strangely 
fascinating  (in  retrospect)  of  my  life, 
though  saddened  by  the  loss  of  two  of  oiu* 
pilots,  one  an  American. 

We  had  no  sooner  got  to  this  place 
than  we  were  sent  out  on  a  patrol  —  six 
of  us,  with  a  French  lieutenant,  a  special 
friend  of  mine,  as  flight-commander. 
None  of  us  had  flown  before  in  this  sector, 

and  a  young  American  (S ,  of  New 

York)  was  making  his  second  flight  over 
the  lines.  The  weather  was  wretched, 
thick,  low-hanging  clouds  with  a  fine 
drizzle  of  rain  —  visibility  almost  zero. 
While  mechanics  filled  the  machine,  I 
pored  over  my  map  till  I  had  all  necessary 
landmarks  thoroughly  in  mind.  At  last 
the  captain  glanced  at  his  watch  and 
shouted,  "En  voiture!" 

I  climbed  into  my  tiny  cockpit,  loaded 


170  THE  FLEDGLING 

my  gun  with  a  snap  of  the  lever,  wiped 
the  sights  free  of  moisture,  and  sank 
back  in  my  seat,  while  my  mechanic 
adjusted  the  belt  which  holds  one  tight 
in  place.  Up  went  the  captain's  hand,  and 
almost  with  a  single  roar  the  six  motors 
started.  One  after  another  we  rushed 
across  the  field,  rose  to  the  low  ceiling  of 
the  clouds,  and  swept  back,  bunched  like 
a  flock  of  teal.  The  flight-commander's 
head,  a  black  leather  dot  in  his  cockpit, 
turned  swiftly  for  a  glance  back.  All  there 
and  well  grouped;  so  he  headed  for  the 
lines,  flying  so  low  that  we  seemed  to 
shave  the  spires  of  village  churches.  Soon 
the  houses  ceased  to  have  roofs  —  we 
were  over  the  front. 

A  great  battle  was  raging  below  us  — 
columns  of  smoke  rose  from  the  towns 
and  the  air  was  rocked  and  torn  by  the 
passage  of  projectiles.  Far  and  near  the 
woods  were  alive  with  the  winking  flash 
of  batteries.  Soon  we  were  far  into  the 


FULL-FLEDGED  171 

German  lines;  deep  coughs  came  from 
the  air  about  us  as  patches  of  black 
sprang  out.  But  we  were  too  low  and  our 
speed  was  too  great  to  be  bothered  by 
the  Boche  gunners.  Suddenly  the  clouds 
broke  for  an  instant,  and  across  the  blue 
hole  I  saw  a  dozen  Albatrosses  driving 
toward  us  —  German  single-seaters,  dark 
ugly  brutes  with  broad  short  wings  and 
pointed  snouts.  Our  leader  saw  them  too, 
and  we  bounded  upward  three  hundred 
feet,  turning  to  meet  them.  The  rest 
happened  so  swiftly  that  I  can  scarcely 
describe  it  coherently.  Out  of  the  tail  of 
my  eye  I  saw  our  leader  dive  on  an 
Albatross,  which  plunged  spinning  to  the 
ground.  At  the  same  instant  I  bounded 
upward  to  the  clouds  and  dropped  on  a 
Boche  who  was  attacking  a  comrade.  I 
could  see  my  gun  spitting  streams  of 
luminous  bullets  into  the  German's  fusel- 
age. But  suddenly  swift  incandescent 
sparks  began  to  pour  past  me,  and  a 


172  THE  FLEDGLING 

glance  backward  showed  three  Alba- 
trosses on  my  tail.  I  turned  upside  down, 
pulled  back,  and  did  a  hairpin  tiu'n,  ris- 
ing to  get  behind  them.  Not  a  German 
machine  was  in  sight  —  they  had  melted 
away  as  suddenly  as  they  came. 

Far  off  to  the  south  four  of  our  ma- 
chines were  heading  back  toward  the 
lines.  Feeling  very  lonely  and  somewhat 
de  trop,  I  opened  the  throttle  wide  and 
headed  after  them.  Just  as  I  caught  up, 
the  leader  signaled  that  he  was  done  for, 
and  glided  off,  with  his  propeller  stopped. 
Praying  that  he  might  get  safely  across 
to  our  side,  I  fell  in  behind  the  second  in 
command.  Only  four  now  —  who  and 
where  was  the  other?  Anxiously  I  ranged 
alongside  of  each  machine  for  a  look  at  its 
number.  As  I  had  feared,  it  was  the 
American  —  a  hot-headed,  fearless  boy, 
full  of  courage  and  confidence,  but  inex- 
perienced and  not  a  skillful  pilot.  No 
word  of  him  since.  Did  he  lose  the  patrol 


FULL-FLEDGED  173 

in  a  sharp  turn  and  get  brought  down  by 
a  prowling  gang  of  Albatrosses,  or  did  he 
have  motor-trouble  which  forced  him  to 
land  in  the  enemy  lines?  These  are  the 
questions  we  ask  ourselves,  hoping  for 
the  best. 

An  hour  after  we  landed  at  our  field, 
a  telephone  message  came,  saying  that 

Lieutenant  de  G had  landed  safely 

a  thousand  yards  behind  the  firing-line, 
with  three  balls  in  his  motor. 

The  captain  sent  for  me.  "Take  my 
motor-car,"  he  said,  "and  go  fetch  de 

G .   The  machine   is   in  plain   view 

on  a  hill.  I  am  giving  you  two  mechanics, 
so  do  your  best  to  save  the  instruments 
and  machine-gun.  The  Boche  artillery 
will  probably  drop  shells  on  the  machine 
before  nightfall." 

The  trip  proved  rather  a  thriller,  for 
at  this  point  the  old-fashioned  picture- 
book  trenchless  warfare  was  in  full  blast. 
Picking  up  de  G ,  we  hid  the  car  in  a 


174  THE  FLEDGLING 

valley  and  sneaked  forward  under  an 
unpleasant  fire  of  shrapnel  and  high  ex- 
plosives. The  unconcerned  infantry  re- 
serves, chaffing  and  smoking  where  they 
lay  hidden  in  fields  of  ripe  wheat,  stiff- 
ened our  slightly  shaky  nerves.  Poor 
timid  aviators,  completely  out  of  their 
element  —  I  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  that 
came  from  the  very  soles  of  my  feet  when 
at  last  our  task  was  done,  and  with  our 
cargo  safely  stowed,  we  sped  out  of  the 
valley  and  back  toward  the  rear.  Hats 
off  to  the  infantry! 

Next  day  two  of  us  went  patrolling 
with  the  captain  —  a  famous  "ace" 
whose  courage  and  skillful  piloting  are 
proverbial  and  who  never  asked  one 
of  his  men  to  do  a  thing  he  hesitated 
to  do  himself.  He  was  particularly  fond 
of  Americans  (one  of  Lufbery's  pall- 
bearers), and  on  many  occasions  had 
done  things  for  me  which  showed  his  rare 
courtesy  and  thoughtfulness.  None  of  us 


FULL-FLEDGED  175 

dreamed,  as  he  laughed  and  joked  with 
us  at  the  breakfast-table,  that  it  was  his 
last  day  of  life. 

The  details  of  this  patrol  will  always 
be  fresh  in  my  mind.  We  were  flying 
at  about  seven  thousand  feet,  the  three 
of  us,  I  on  the  captain's  right.  At  six 
thousand,  stretching  away  into  the  Ger- 
man lines,  there  was  a  beautiful  sea  of 
clouds,  white  and  level  and  limitless.  Far 
back,  a  dozen  miles  "chez  Boche,"  a  flight 
of  Albatrosses  crawled  across  the  sky  — 
a  roughly  grouped  string  of  dots,  for  all 
the  world  like  migrating  wildfowl.  Sud- 
denly, about  seven  or  eight  miles  in,  a 
Hun  two-seater  poked  his  nose  above  the 
clouds,  rose  leisurely  into  view,  and  dove 
back.  I  was  quite  sure  that  he  had  not 
seen  us.  The  captain  began  at  once  to 
rise,  turning  at  the  same  time  to  take 
advantage  of  the  sun,  and  for  a  few  min- 
utes we  wove  back  and  forth,  edging 
in  till   we   were  nearly    over   the  spot 


^y 


176  THE  FLEDGLING 

where  the  Boehe  had  appeared.  At  last 
our  patience  was  rewarded.  The  Boehe 
emerged  from  the  clouds,  seemed  to 
hesitate  an  instant  like  a  timid  fish  rising 
from  a  bed  of  seaweed,  and  headed  for 
the  lines,  where  doubtless  he  had  some 
reglage  or  reconnaissance  to  do. 

Our  position  was  perfect  —  in  the  sun 
and  well  above  the  enemy.  The  captain 
banked  vertically  and  plunged  like  a 
thunderbolt  on  the  German,  I  following 
a  little  behind  and  to  one  side.  At  one 
hundred  and  fifty  yards,  streaks  of  fire 
poured  from  his  two  guns,  and  as  he  dove 
under  the  German's  belly  I  got  into 
range.  Dropping  vertically  at  a  speed  (I 
suppose)  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
an  hour,  with  the  wind  screaming  through 
the  wires,  I  got  my  sights  to  bear  and 
pulled  the  trigger.  Faintly  above  the 
furious  rush  of  air,  I  could  hear  the  stut- 
ter of  my  gun  and  see  the  bullets  streak- 
ing to  their  mark.  It  was  over  in  a  wink 


FULL-FLEDGED  177 

of  time:  as  I  swerved  sharply  to  the  left, 
I  caught  a  ghmpse  of  the  Hun  machine- 
gunner,  in  a  great  yellow  helmet  and 
round  goggles,  frantically  getting  his 
gun  to  bear  on  me.  A  pull-back  and  I 
shot  up  under  his  tail,  tilted  up,  and  gave 
him  another  burst. 

But  what  was  this  —  as  I  opened  the 
throttle,  the  engine  sputtered  and  died! 
I  dove  steeply  at  once  to  keep  the  pro- 
peller turning,  realizing  in  a  flash  of 
thought  that  the  long  fast  dive  had  made 
the  pressure  in  my  gasoline  tank  go 
down.  A  turn  of  the  little  lever  put  her 
on  the  small  gravity  tank  called  the 
"nurse";  but  no  luck  —  something  was 
wrong  with  the  valve.  Nothing  to  do  but 
pump  by  hand,  and  I  pumped  like  a 
madman.  Seven  miles  in  the  enemy  lines 
and  dropping  like  a  stone  —  I  was  what 
the  French  call  tres  inquiet.  Three  thou- 
sand feet,  two  thousand,  a  thousand  — 
and  I  pumped  on,  visions  of  a  soup-diet 


178  THE  FLEDGLING 

and  all  the  tales  I  had  heard  of  German 
scientific  food  substitutes  flashing  through 
my  mind.  Five  hundred;  a  splutter  from 
the  engine,  and  at  two  hundred  feet  above 
a  ruined  village  she  burst  into  her  full 
roar,  and  I  drew  a  breath  for  the  first 
time  in  the  descent.  Crossed  the  lines 
three  hundred  feet  up  with  full  throttle 
and  the  nose  down,  and  didn't  get  a 
bullet-hole! 

I  was  unable  to  find  the  others,  and 
as  my  petrol  was  low  I  went  home.  The 
rest  I  have  from  the  other  pilot. 

The  captain  apparently  had  the  same 
trouble  as  I,  for  he  continued  his  dive 
to  about  three  thousand  feet,  followed  by 
the  other.  The  German,  when  last  seen, 
was  diving  for  the  ground,  so  we  shall 
never  know  whether  or  not  we  got  him. 
Rising  again  above  the  sea  of  clouds, 
the  captain  attacked  the  rear  man  of 
a  patrol  of  eleven  Albatrosses  which 
passed  beneath  him.  Turning  over  and 


FULL-FLEDGED  179 

over  aimlessly,  the  Hun  fell  out  of  sight 
into  the  clouds.  At  this  moment  three 
Boches  dove  on  the  captain  from  the 
rear  —  his  machine  burst  into  flames 
and  dove  steeply  toward  our  lines.  Our 
remaining  pilot,  hopelessly  outnumbered, 
extricated  himself  with  difficulty  and 
arrived  a  few  minutes  after  me,  his  bus 
riddled  with  balls.  We  found  the  cap- 
tain's body,  just  behind  the  firing-line. 
He  had  been  killed  by  three  bullets,  but 
had  retained  consciousness  long  enough 
to  get  to  friendly  ground  before  he  died, 
A  splendid  officer  and  a  true  friend,  whom 
we  all  mourn  sincerely. 

The  past  fortnight  has  been  rather 
stirring  for  us  —  constant  flying,  plenty 
of  fights,  and  the  usual  moving  about. 
One  gets  used  to  it  in  time,  but  at  first 
it  is  a  wrench  to  a  man  of  my  conservative 
nature  and  sedentary  habits.  This  time 
we  have  struck  it  rich  in  a  village  where 


180  THE  FLEDGLING 

soldiers  are  still  welcome.  I  have  a  really 
charming  room  in  the  house  of  the  prin- 
cipal family  —  well-to-do  people  who  own 
the  local  factory.  Great  sunny  south 
windows,  running  water,  and  a  soft 
snowy  bed,  scented  with  lavender!  A  day 
of  rest  to-day,  as  they  are  installing  a 
new  motor  in  my  "taxi";  so  I  am  planted 
at  a  little  table,  looking  out  through  my 
window  on  a  warm  peaceful  scene  of  tiled 
roofs,  rustling  leaves,  and  a  delicious 
sky  across  which  float  summery  clouds. 
Not  a  uniform  in  sight,  not  a  sound  of  a 
cannon  —  the  war  seems  an  impossible 
dream. 

The  last  day  at  our  old  field  I  had  a 
narrow  escape.  Two  of  us  were  flying 
together  up  and  down  the  lines  at  about 
four  thousand  feet.  The  other  chap  had 
allowed  me  to  get  pretty  far  in  the  lead, 
when  I  spied,  about  two  thousand  feet 
below  me,  a  strange-looking  two-seater, 
darkly  camouflaged,  on  which  I  could  see 


FULL-FLEDGED  181 

no  insignia.  I  dove  on  him,  but  not  head- 
long, as  the  EngHsh  have  a  machine  on 
similar  lines,  and  it  was  not  until  I  was 
quite  close  that  I  made  out  two  tiny- 
black  crosses  set  in  circles  of  orange.  By 
this  time  the  machine-gunner  was  on  the 
alert,  and  just  as  I  was  going  to  give  him 
a  burst,  fiac,  flac,  flac,  bullets  began  to 
pass  me  from  behind.  Holes  suddenly 
appeared  in  my  wings;  in  another  mo- 
ment whoever  was  shooting  would  have 
had  me,  so  I  rose  steeply  in  a  sharp  turn, 
saw  nothing,  turned  again  and  again,  and 
finally,  disappearing  in  the  distance  after 
the  two-seater,  I  made  out  two  little 
Pfalz  scouts,  painted  dark  green. 

My  comrade,  who  was  having  engine 
trouble,  saw  the  whole  thing.  The  Boche 
single-seaters  were  well  behind  the  larger 
plane  they  were  protecting,  —  somehow 
I  missed  seeing  them,  — •  and  when  I  dove 
at  their  pal  they  rose  up  under  my  tail 
and  let  me  have  it  with  their  four  guns. 


182  THE  FLEDGLING 

Only  some  rotten  shooting  saved  me  from 
being  brought  down.  The  hardest  thing 
for  a  new  pilot  to  learn  is  the  proper  com- 
bination of  dash  and  wariness:  neither 
produces  results  alone;  both  are  absolutely 
essential.  One  must  bear  in  mind  two 
axioms:  first,  bring  down  the  enemy; 
second,  don't  get  brought  down  your- 
self. A  disheartening  number  of  young 
pilots,  full  of  dash  and  courage,  trained 
at  great  expense  to  their  country,  get 
themselves  brought  down  on  their  first 
patrol,  simply  because  they  lack  skill 
and  the  necessary  dash  of  wariness.  A 
good  general  does  not  ordinarily  attack 
the  enemy  where  he  is  strongest. 

Our  field  was  deserted:  the  mechanics 
were  packing  to  leave,  and  my  machine  — 
old  Slapping  Sally  —  stood  mournfully 
in  the  corner  of  a  hangar.  I  stowed  my 
belongings  in  the  little  locker  at  my  side, 
had  her  wheeled  out,  adjusted  my  maps, 
and  in  five  minutes  was  off  on  my  long 


FULL-FLEDGED  183 

trip  over  unknown  country.  Our  maps 
are  really  marvelous.  With  the  compass 
to  check  up  directions  of  roads,  railroads, 
canals,  and  rivers,  one  can  travel  hun- 
dreds of  miles  over  strange  country  and 
never  miss  a  crossroad  or  a  village.  If, 
however,  you  allow  yourseK  to  become 
lost  for  an  instant,  you  are  probably 
hopelessly  lost,  with  nothing  to  do  but 
land  and  locate  yourseK  on  the  map. 

When  I  left,  there  was  a  gale  of  wind 
blowing,  with  spits  of  rain;  and  in  fifteen 
minutes,  during  which  I  had  covered 
forty  miles,  the  clouds  were  scudding 
past  at  three  hundred  feet  off  the  ground, 
forcing  me  at  times  to  jump  tall  trees 
on  hills.  A  bit  too  thick.  Seeing  a  small 
aerodrome  on  my  right,  I  buzzed  over 
and  landed,  getting  a  great  reception 
from  the  pilots,  who  had  never  examined 
one  of  the  latest  single-seaters.  It  is 
really  comical,  with  what  awe  the  pilots 
of  slower  machines  regard  a  scout.  They 


184  THE  FLEDGLING 

have  been  filled  full  of  mechanics'  stories 
about  "  landing  at  terrific  speed  —  the 
slightest  false  movement  means  death," 
and  the  like;  whereas  in  reality  our 
machines  are  the  easiest  things  in  the 
world  to  land,  once  you  get  the  trick. 

In  a  couple  of  hours  the  weather 
showed  signs  of  improvement,  so  I  shook 
hands  all  round  and  strapped  myself  in. 
To  satisfy  their  interest  and  curiosity,  I 
taxied  to  the  far  edge  of  the  field,  headed 
into  the  wind,  rose  a  yard  off  the  ground, 
gave  her  full  motor,  and  held  her  down 
to  within  thirty  yards  of  the  spectators, 
grouped  before  a  hangar.  By  this  time  Sally 
was  fairly  burning  the  breeze  —  travel- 
ing every  yard  of  her  one  hundred  and 
thirty-five  miles  an  hour;  and  as  my  hosts 
began  to  scatter,  I  let  her  have  her  head. 
Up  she  went  in  a  mighty  bound  at  forty- 
five  degrees,  nine  hundred  feet  in  the  draw- 
ing of  a  breath.  There  I  flattened  her, 
reduced  the  motor,  did  a  couple  of  "Im- 


FULL-FLEDGED  185 

melman  turns"  (instead  of  banking,  turn 
upside-down,  and  pull  back),  and  waved 
good-bye.  Rather  childish,  but  they  were 
good  fellows,  and  really  interested  in 
what  the  bus  would  do. 

All  went  well  as  far  as  Paris,  where  I 
had  one  of  the  classic  Paris  breakdowns, 
though  genuine  enough  as  it  chanced. 
Landed  in  the  suburbs,  got  a  mechanic 
to  work,  and  had  time  for  a  delicious 
lunch  at  a  small  workmen's  restaurant. 
Treated  myself  to  a  half  bottle  of  sound 
Medoc  and  a  villainous  cigar  with  the 
coffee,  and  got  back  just  in  time  to  find 
them  testing  my  motor.  The  rest  of  the 
trip  was  uneventful.  I  arrived  here  in  the 
early  afternoon  and  installed  myself  for 
the  night  in  these  superb  quarters. 

This  is  the  classic  hour  for  French 
pilots  to  foregather  in  excited  groups 
to  expliquer  les  coups  —  an  expressive 
phrase  for  which  I  can  recall  no  exact 
equivalent  in  English.  They   (or  rather 


186  THE  FLEDGLING 

we)  spend  a  full  hour  every  evening  in 
telling  just  how  it  was  done,  or  why  it 
was  not  done,  and  so  on,  ad  infinitum. 
Snatches  of  characteristic  talk  reach 
your  ears  —  (I  will  attempt  a  rough 
translation).  "You  poor  fish!  why  did  n't 
you  dive  that  time  they  had  us  bracketed  ? 
—  I  had  to  follow  you  and  I  got  an  eclat 
as  big  as  a  dinner-plate  within  a  foot  of 
my  back." 

"Did  you  see  me  get  that  Boche  over 
the  wood?  I  killed  the  observer  at  the 
first  rafale,  rose  over  the  tail,  and  must 
have  got  the  pilot  then,  for  he  spun  clear 
down  till  he  crashed." 

"See  the  tanks  ahead  of  that  wave  of 
assault?  Funny  big  crawling  things  they 
looked  —  that  last  one  must  have  been 
en  panne  —  the  Boches  were  certainly 
bouncing  shells  off  its  back!" 

"Raoul  and  I  found  a  troop  of  Boche 
cavalry  on  a  road  —  in  khaki,  I  swear. 
Thought  they  were  English  till  we  were 


FULL-FLEDGED  187 

within  one  hundred  metres.  Then  we  gave 
them  the  spray  —  funniest  thing  you  ever 
saw!" 

"Yes  —  I'll  swear  I  saw  some  khaki, 
too.  Saw  a  big  column  of  Boche  infantry 
and  was  just  going  to  let  'em  have  it 
when  I  saw  horizon-blue  guards.  Pris- 
oners, of  course." 

You  can  imagine  pages  of  this  sort  of 
thing  —  every  night.  At  the  bar  we  have 
a  big  sign:  "Ici  on  explique  les  coups."  At 
the  mess,  another:  "Defense  d'expliquer 
les  coups  ici."  There  are  limits. 

As  mess-officer  I  have  been  going 
strong  of  late  —  nearly  every  day  one 
or  two  or  three  "big  guns"  (grosses 
huiles,  the  French  call  them)  of  aviation 
drop  in  to  lunch  or  dinner.  Down  from  a 
patrol  at  10.30,  and  scarcely  out  of  the 
machine,  when  up  dashes  our  cook,  knife 
in  one  hand  and  ladle  in  the  other,  fairly 
boiling  over  with  anxiety.  "Commandant 


188  THE  FLEDGLING 

X and  his  staff  are  coming  to  lunch  — 

I  can't  leave  the  stove  —  what  on  earth 
shall  we  do?" 

An  hour  and  a  half.  Just  time  for  the 
cyclist  to  buzz  down  to  the  nearest 
town  for  some  extra  hors  d'oeuvres,  salad, 
and  half  a  dozen  old  bottles.  In  the  end 
everything  runs  off  smoothly,  and  when 
the  white  wine  succeeds  the  red,  the 
usual  explication  des  coups  begins  — 
highly  entertaining  inside  stuff,  from 
which  one  could  cull  a  whole  backstairs 
history  of  French  aviation.  It  has  been 
my  privilege  to  meet  many  famous  men 
in  this  way  —  great  "aces"  and  great 
administrators  of  the  flying  arm;  men 
whose  names  are  known  wherever  Euro- 
pean aviators  gather.  I  wish  I  could  tell 
you  half  the  drolleries  they  recount,  or 
reproduce  one  quarter  of  the  precise, 
ironical,  story-telling  manner  of  a  culti- 
vated Frenchman. 

A  captain  who  lunched  with  us  to- 


FULL-FLEDGED  189 

day,  bearer  of  an  historic  name,  was 
recently  decorated  (somewhat  against 
his  will)  for  forcing  a  Boche  to  land  in 
our  lines.  The  truth  is  that  in  the  single 
combat  high  above  the  lines,  the  cap- 
tain's motor  failed  and  he  coasted  for 
home,  maneuvering  wildly  to  escape  the 
pursuing  Hun's  bullets.  A  few  kilometres 
within  our  lines  the  German  motor  failed 
also,  and  down  they  came  together  — 
the  Boche  a  prisoner,  the  Frenchman 
covered  with  not  particularly  welcome 
glory.  Not  all  our  guests  knew  the  story, 
and  one  high  oflScer  asked  the  captain 
how  he  maneuvered  to  drive  down  the 
Boche.  "Oh,  like  this,"  erratically  said 
the  captain,  illustrating  with  frantic  mo- 
tions of  an  imaginary  stick  and  rudder. 

"But  the  Boche  —  .^"  inquired  the 
other,  puzzled,  "how  did  you  get  him 
down  —  where  was  he.^^" 

"Ah,  the  Boche;  he  was  behind  me," 
answered  the  captain. 


190  THE  FLEDGLING 

Another  oflScer,  recently  promoted  to 
a  very  high  position  in  the  aviation,  is  a 
genuine  character,  a  "numero"  as  they 
say  here.  He  recently  spent  many  hours 
in  perfecting  a  trick  optical  sight,  guar- 
anteed to  down  a  Boche  at  any  range, 
angle,  or  speed.  He  adored  his  invention, 
which,  he  admitted,  would  probably  end 
the  war  when  fully  perfected,  and  grew 
quite  testy  when  his  friends  told  him  the 
thing  was  far  too  complicated  for  any- 
thing but  laboratory  use.  At  last,  though 
he  had  reached  a  non-flying  rank  and  had 
not  flown  for  months,  he  installed  the 
optical  wonder  on  a  single-seater  and 
went  out  over  the  lines  to  try  it  out.  As 
luck  would  have  it,  he  fell  in  with  a  patrol 
of  eight  Albatrosses,  and  the  fight  that 
followed  has  become  legendary.  Boche 
after  Boche  dove  on  him,  riddling  his 
plane  with  bullets,  while  the  inventor, 
in  a  scientific  ecstasy,  peered  this  way 
and   that   through   his   sight,   adjusting 


FULL-FLEDGED  191 

set-screws  and  making  hasty  mental 
notes.  By  a  miracle  he  was  not  brought 
down,  and  in  the  end  a  French  patrol 
came  to  his  rescue.  He  had  not  iBred  a 
shot!  At  lunch  the  other  day  some  one 
asked  what  sort  of  a  chap  this  inventor 
was,  and  the  answer  was  so  exceedingly 
French  that  I  will  reproduce  it  word  for 
word:  "He  detests  women  and  dogs;  he 
has  a  wife  he  adores,  and  a  dog  he  can't 
let  out  of  his  sight."  A  priceless  char- 
acterization, I  think,  of  a  testy  yet  ami- 
able old  martinet. 

One  of  my  friends  here  had  the  luck, 
several  months  ago,  to  force  a  Zeppelin 
to  land.  A  strange  and  wonderful  ex- 
perience, he  says,  circling  for  an  hour 
and  a  half  about  the  huge  air-monster, 
which  seemed  to  be  having  trouble  with 
its  gas.  He  poured  bullets  into  it  until 
his  supply  was  exhausted,  and  headed 
it  off  every  time  it  tried  to  make  for  the 
German  lines.  All  the  while  it  was  settling, 


192  THE  FLEDGLING 

almost  insensibly,  and  finally  the  Hun 
crew  began  to  throw  things  out  —  ma- 
chine-guns, long  belts  of  cartridges,  pro- 
visions, furniture,  a  motley  collection.  In 
the  end  it  landed  intact  in  our  lines  —  a 
great  catch.  The  size  of  the  thing  is  simply 
incredible.  This  one  was  at  least  ninety 
feet  through,  and  I  hesitate  to  say  how 
many  hundred  feet  long. 

Three  more  of  our  boys  gone,  one  of 
them  my  most  particular  pal.  Strange 
as  it  seems,  I  am  one  of  the  oldest  mem- 
bers of  the  squadron  left.  We  buried 
Harry  yesterday.  He  was  the  finest  type 
of  young  French  oflScer  —  an  aviator 
since  1913;  volunteer  at  the  outbreak  of 
war;  taken  prisoner,  badly  wounded; 
fourteen  months  in  a  German  fortress; 
escaped,  killing  three  guards,  across  Ger- 
many in  the  dead  of  winter,  sick  and  with 
an  unhealed  wound;  back  on  the  front, 
after  ten  days  with  his  family,  although  he 
need  never  have  been  a  combatant  again. 


FULL-FLEDGED  193 

A  charming,  cultivated,  witty  companion, 
one  of  the  most  finished  pilots  in  France, 
and  a  soldier  whose  only  thought  was  of 
duty,  his  loss  is  a  heavy  one  for  his  friends, 
his  family,  and  his  country.  For  a  day 
and  a  night  he  lay  in  state  in  the  church 
of  a  near-by  village,  buried  in  flowers  sent 
by  half  the  squadrons  of  France;  at  his 
feet  his  tunic  ablaze  with  crosses  and 
orders.  It  was  my  turn  to  stand  guard  the 
morning  his  family  arrived,  and  I  was 
touched  by  the  charming  simple  piety 
of  the  countryfolk,  who  came  in  an  un- 
ending stream  to  kneel  and  say  a  prayer 
for  the  soul  of  the  departed  soldier.  Old 
women  with  baskets  of  bread  and  cheese 
on  their  arms  brought  pathetic  little 
bouquets;  tiny  girls  of  seven  or  eight 
came  in  solemnly  alone,  dropped  a  flower 
on  Harry's  coffin,  and  knelt  to  pray  on 
their  little  bare  knees.  The  French  peas- 
ants get  something  from  their  church 
that  most  of  us  at  home  seem  to  miss. 


194  THE  FLEDGLING 

At  last  the  family  came  —  worn  out 
with  the  long  sad  jom-ney  from  their 
chateau  in  middle  France.  Harry's  mother, 
slender,  aristocratic,  and  courageous,  had 
lost  her  other  son  a  short  time  before, 
and  I  was  nearer  tears  at  her  magnificent 
seK-control  than  if  she  had  surrendered 
to  her  grief.  Her  bearing  throughout  the 
long  mass  and  at  the  grave-side  was  one 
of  the  finest  and  saddest  things  I  have 
ever  seen  in  my  life.  Poor  old  Harry  —  I 
hope  he  is  in  a  paradise  reserved  for  heroes 
—  for  he  was  one  in  the  truest  sense  of 
the  word. 

I  got  absolutely  lost  the  other  day, 
for  the  second  time  since  I  have  been  on 
the  front.  I  was  flying  at  about  nineteen 
thousand  feet,  half  a  mile  above  a  lovely 
sea  of  clouds.  I  supposed  I  was  directly 
over  the  front,  but  in  reality  there  was 
a  gale  of  wind  blowing,  drifting  me 
rapidly  "chez  Boche."  Three  thousand 


FDLL-FLEDGED  195 

feet  below,  and  miles  to  the  northeast,  a 
patrol  of  German  scouts  beat  back  and 
forth,  a  string  of  dots,  appearing  and 
disappearing  among  the  cloudy  peaks 
and  canons.  Too  strong  and  too  far  in 
their  lines  to  attack,  I  was  alternately 
watching  them  and  my  clock  —  very 
cold  and  bored.  Suddenly,  straight  below 
me  and  heading  for  home  at  top  speed,  I 
saw  a  big  Hun  two-seater,  with  enormous 
black  crosses  on  his  wings. 

At  such  a  moment  —  I  confess  it  frankly 
—  there  seem  to  be  two  individuals  in  me 
who  in  a  flash  of  time  conclude  a  heated 
argument.  Says  one,  "You're  all  alone; 
no  one  will  ever  know  it  if  you  sail 
calmly  on,  pretending  not  to  see  the 
Boche.'' 

"See  that  Boche,"  says  the  other; 
"you're  here  to  get  Germans  —  go  after 
him." 

"See  here,"  puts  in  the  first,  who  is 
very  clever  at  excuses,   "time's  nearly 


196  THE  FLEDGLING 

up,  petrol's  low,  and  there  are  nine  Hun 
scouts  who  will  drop  on  you  if  you  dive 
on  the  two-seater." 

"Forget  it,  you  poor  weak-kneed  boob !  '* 
answers  number  two  heatedly.  "Dive  on 
that  Hun  and  be  quick  about  it!" 

So  I  dived  on  him,  obeying  automati- 
cally and  almost  reluctantly  the  im- 
perious little  voice.  With  an  eye  to  the 
machine-gunner  in  the  rear,  I  drove  down 
on  him  almost  vertically,  getting  in  a 
burst  point-blank  at  his  port  bow,  so  to 
speak.  Pushing  still  farther  forward  on 
the  stick,  I  saw  his  wheels  pass  over  me 
like  a  flash,  ten  yards  up.  Pulled  the 
throttle  wide  open,  but  the  motor  was  a 
second  late  in  catching,  so  that  when  I 
did  an  Immelman  turn  to  come  up  under 
his  tail,  I  was  too  far  back  and  to  one 
side.  As  I  pulled  out  of  the  upside-down 
position,  luminous  sparks  began  to  drive 
past  me,  and  a  second  later  I  caught  a 
glimpse   of   the   goggled    Hun   observer 


FULL-FLEDGED  197 

leaning  Intently  over  his  cockpit  as  he 
trained  his  gun  on  me. 

But  beside  old  Slapping  Sally  his 
machine  was  as  a  buzzard  to  a  falcon; 
Ip.  a  breath  I  was  under  his  tail,  had 
reared  almost  vertically,  and  was  pour- 
ing bullets  into  his  underbody.  "You 
will  shoot  me  up,  will  you?"  I  yelled 
ferociously  —  just  like  a  bad  boy  in  a 
back-yard  fight.  "Take  that,  then  — " 
at  which  dramatic  instant  a  quart  of 
scalding  oil  struck  me  in  the  face,  half 
in  the  eyes,  and  half  in  my  open  mouth. 
I  never  saw  the  Boche  again,  and  five 
minutes  later,  when  I  had  cleaned  my 
eyes  out  enough  to  see  dimly,  I  was 
totally  lost.  Keeping  just  above  the 
clouds  to  watch  for  holes,  I  was  ten  long 
minutes  at  one  hundred  and  thirty  miles 
per  hour  in  getting  to  the  lines,  at  a  place 
I  had  never  seen  before. 

Landed  at  a  strange  aerodrome,  filled 
Sally   up,   and   flew   home   seventy-five 


198  THE  FLEDGLING 

miles  by  map.  As  usual,  every  one  had 
begun  the  old  story  of  how  I  was  not  a 
bad  chap  at  bottom,  and  had  many  noble 
qualities  safely  hidden  away  —  when  I 
strolled  into  the  bar.  Slight  sensation  as 
usual,  tinged  with  a  suspicion  of  mild 
disappointment. 

Almost  with  regret,  I  have  turned 
faithful  old  Slapping  Sally  over  to  a 
newly  arrived  young  pilot,  and  taken  a 
new  machine,  the  last  lingering  echo  of 
the  dernier  cri  in  fighting  single-seaters. 
1  had  hoped  for  one  for  some  time,  and 
now  the  captain  has  allotted  me  a  brand- 
new  one,  fresh  from  the  factory.  It  is 
a  formidable  little  monster,  squat  and 
broad-winged,  armed  to  the  teeth,  with 
the  power  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  wild 
horses  bellowing  out  through  its  exhausts. 

With  slight  inward  trepidations  I  took 
it  up  for  a  spin  after  lunch.  The  thing  is 
terrific  —  it  fairly  hurtles  its  way  up 
through  the  air,  roaring  and  snorting  and 


FULL-FLEDGED  199 

trembling  with  its  enormous  excess  of 
power.  Not  half  so  pleasant  as  Sally,  but 
a  grimly  practical  little  dragon  of  im- 
mense speed  and  potential  destructive-" 
ness.  At  a  couple  of  thousand  feet  over 
the  field,  I  shut  off  the  motor  and  dived 
to  try  it  out.  It  fairly  took  my  breath 
away  —  behind  my  goggles  my  eyes  filled 
with  tears;  my  body  rose  up  in  the  safety- 
belt,  refusing  to  keep  pace  with  the 
machine's  formidable  speed.  In  a  wink, 
I  was  close  to  the  ground,  straightened 
out,  and  rushing  low  over  the  blurred 
grass  at  a  criminal  gait  —  never  made  a 
faster  landing.  It  is  a  tribute  to  man's 
war-time  ingenuity,  but,  for  pleasure, 
give  me  my  old  machine. 

The  psychology  of  flying  would  be 
a  curious  study,  were  it  not  so  diflScult 
to  get  frankly  stated  data  —  uninfluenced 
by  pride,  self-respect,  or  sense  of  morale. 
I  only  know  my  own  feelings  in  so  far  as 
they  represent  the  average  single-seater 


200  THE  FLEDGLING 

pilot.  Once  in  the  air,  I  am  perfectly- 
contented  and  at  home,  somewhat  bored 
at  times  on  dull  days,  or  when  very  high 
and  cold.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  never 
been  strapped  in  a  machine  to  leave  the 
ground,  without  an  underlying  slight 
nervousness  and  reluctance;  no  great 
matter,  and  only  an  instant's  mental 
struggle  to  overcome,  but  enough  per- 
haps to  prevent  me  from  flying  the  very 
small  and  powerful  machines,  for  pleasure, 
after  the  war.  I  often  wonder  if  other 
pilots  have  the  same  feeling  —  it's  noth- 
ing to  be  ashamed  of,  because  it  does  not, 
^  in  the  slightest,  prevent  one's  doing  one's 
duty,  and  disappears  the  moment  one  is 
in  the  air.  I  can  give  you  its  measure  in 
the  fact  that  I  always  prefer,  when  pos- 
sible, to  make  a  long  journey  in  my  ma- 
chine, to  doing  it  in  the  deadly  slow  war- 
time trains.  Still,  it's  a  choice  of  evils. 
It  is  hard  to  give  reasons,  but  certainly 
flying  is  not  an   enjoyable  sport,  like 


FULL-FLEDGED  201 

riding  or  motoring,  once  the  wonder  of 
it  has  worn  oflF;  simply  a  sHghtly  dis- 
agreeable but  marvelously  fast  means 
of  transport.  The  wind,  the  noise,  the 
impossibility  of  conversation,  the  ex- 
cessive speed  —  are  all  unpleasant  fea- 
tures. These  are  partially  redeemed  by 
the  never-ceasing  wonder  of  what  one 
sees.  One's  other  senses  are  useless  in 
the  air,  but  what  a  feast  for  the  eyes! 
Whole  fruitful  domains  spread  out  be- 
neath one,  silvery  rivers,  smoking  cities, 
perhaps  a  glimpse  of  the  far-oflf  ragged 
Alps.  And  when,  at  eighteen  or  twenty 
thousand  feet,  above  a  white  endless  sea 
of  clouds,  one  floats  almost  unconscious 
of  time  and  space  in  the  unearthly  sun- 
shine of  the  Universe,  there  are  moments 
when  infinite  things  are  very  close. 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .   A 


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